


Golden Currants of the Sun

by inferablefiend



Series: Our Burning World [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: (But is still an asshole at first), AU, Cliche, Cowboys, Eventual Smut, F/M, I suck at these, OC, Original Character - Freeform, Small Fandom, Stupid romance, arthur morgan - Freeform, clichéd, not a slow burn, not following main storyline, red dead - Freeform, shoot 'ems, they fall hard and fast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-08-09 20:06:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inferablefiend/pseuds/inferablefiend
Summary: After being rescued from her abusive husband, Florence is displaced. She is pulled into the gang, unsure of her new life and where she stands with Arthur. Given a second chance, she makes the most of it, finding her place in the gang and a place in Arthur's heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was so excited for the second game, I had to write this. It doesn't necessarily follow the main plot whatsoever, more just thrown together in a jumbled mess. I haven't played all of the game, so I'll be updating as I go along and putting in different missions Arthur is given. If you'd like to see Arthur and Florence tackle one, leave a comment below and I'll see what I can do!
> 
> The characters might be a little OC but that should improve as I get further along with this.
> 
> TW: abuse in the beginning

Florence ducks underneath's William's hand. "Come back here you little trollop!" he screams, scurrying after her. His hand brushes the back of her skirt as she attempts to go out the door and find help. Not that it helped last time. The men on horseback only stared at her as she's dragged back inside the house by the roots of her hair. They don't care about a lowly Native woman being beaten by her husband.  
  
William used to be sweet on her. Bought her flowers and the golden feathers that hang around her neck, wrapped three times with a leather thong. What happened? He came back from town one evening and just beat her until she bawled on the floor, blood dripping into the wood. Florence doesn't know what changed. "No! Leave me the hell alone, you dirty man."  
  
"You don't speak to me that way, bitch. I _own_ you," William growls, bending low to center himself. He moves when she moves, small incremental steps with his feet to keep her centered with him. "Now come here!" He's gotten fat from all the alcohol he's consumed in the last year, but that hasn't hindered his speed nor his strength. His body takes her down and he straddles her middle while his hands wrap around her neck.  
  
Florence struggles to fight him off, bucking her hips up and scratching at his hands. "No... No. I refuse to die by-" He presses his hands harder cutting off her words.  
  
Her vision begins to darken, blacken at the edges. Light spills across William's back, illuminating the hatred in his eyes. Her mother calling her home perhaps? No. A sharp shot rings through the room and he falls forward on her, weight crushing. His hands go limp and she's able to take in ragged breaths of air. Or attempt to with the stench of him filling her nostrils.  
  
Something warm and sticky spills into her hair. Dead. He's dead. Confusing emotions war in her. Relief she's out from underneath his thumb and no longer have to obey his whims and grief for the death of her husband. Somewhere underneath his rough exterior and his fighting hands was the William she fell in love with.  
  
Florence is pulled from underneath him, spreading what she guessed correctly as blood across the wooden floor of the hotel they'd been staying in. She wanted to see a show in Valentine and in a moment of rare sweetness, he agreed. William then proceeded to get drunk at the local bar, coming back fired up by some apparent bar fight that was pushed out into the street.  
  
The hands drop her painfully onto the ground some distance away from his body. William is a large man, made even larger by his face down position. She can see the glistening hole in the back of his head and the puddle of blood, smeared and disturbed. Florence wants to scream, but it gets caught in her throat and makes an uncomfortable lump that renders her completely mute. "Miss? Are you alright miss?" a male voice asks. His boots thump on the floor, the slight tinkling of spurs as he comes into her view.  
  
A broken man. One eye is almost swollen shut and his lip is split. His clothes are muddied and look almost beyond repair. "Miss? He's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."  
  
Her eyes trail to the owner of the hotel, the one who gladly gave them a room. Did he assume her a whore? Someone William was paying? His hands are over his mouth as he attempts to stutter out words. The rescuer doesn't wait another second. He presses a large stack of bills into the owner's hand, muttering something about compensation and drags her out without another scrap of clothing for her to change into.  
  
She's out in the cool spring night, sky cluttered with stars. "What's your name?"  
  
"Don't worry 'bout it for now. Just get over here, damnit," he growls, pushing her towards the horse. Was she rescued again just to be abused? She considers running, but with nowhere to, she has no choice but to climb onto the back of his bay. He climbs into the saddle in front of her, kicking the horse into a hard gallop as mud sprays around the horse's socks.  
  
Silence drags on between the two of them as Florence is thrown against her rescuer's back with each rock the horse jumps over. When there is plenty distance between them and Valentine, he slows the horse and stops, dismounting. "You should be good from here," he says, giving her his hand and helping her down.  
  
Her skirt is stiff with William's blood and she wants it off of her. "You're just going to leave me here?"  
  
"You'll find another man to buy-"  
  
"I am not a whore," Florence says, stepping close to him. He takes one back, seemingly surprised by the anger. "I was his wife and he took to beating on me like I was-"  
  
"Alright, alright. I guess you can come back with me, though Dutch said no more passengers..." He rubs his scruff, looking away from her. " _But_ he told Uncle and Reverend no more passengers. Not me."  
  
He holds his hand out to her, leather glove caked in mud and what looked like blood, though she knows it's not from William. Was he part of the bar fight she heard down in the street? "Arthur Morgan."  
  
Florence takes his hand, shaking it firmly, a slight smile on her lips. "Florence."  
  
"Well Florence, come on." Arthur is back in the saddle, holding out his arm to help her into it. She sits on the horse's rear, the ride smoother this time. "What were you doing with a man like that?"  
  
"He wasn't always full of hatred. He didn't always beat me..." She tries to think back to the last time it'd been a few weeks. He beat her almost everyday or threatened to. "We were in town for a show and... I think he got too rowdy in the bar. Came back with energy to spare and chose to-" She can't make herself finish the sentence.  
  
They come to a grouping of trees and a gruff voice calling out, "Who's there?"  
  
"Calm down, Marston. It's just me." Florence makes herself smaller, hoping the white of her bodice is covered by blood to keep her hidden for the moment. She can see fire flickering through the trees and the sound of folks talking. He stops the horse in a small gathering, helps her down and takes off the saddle, depositing it on the ground nearby.  
  
"Come. Let's see what Dutch has to say about this." Florence follows him, almost too closely as eyes stare at her.  
  
"Bring yourself back something?" a male voice calls out after a low whistle.  
  
"Shut it, Bill. Or I'll shut it for you," Arthur threatens, coming to a stop near a tent. "Dutch, this is Florence. She-"  
  
"I said no more passengers, Arthur. I may have directed it at Uncle and the Reverend, but I meant it for the whole gang." Dutch is a large man, spread across a cot with a book in his hand and a small candle casting light across the pages.  
  
"I couldn't very well leave her in Valentine, Dutch," Arthur says.  
  
"Your heart will be the death of you." Dutch stands, putting his book face down. He inspects her, circling her the way you would a cow or horse you're about to buy.  
  
"I can talk. I have words. If you want me gone, then tell me. Not him," Florence says with a rough edge to her voice after jabbing her finger at Arthur.  
  
Dutch laughs. "You'll be fine. We won't have an area for you to sleep in just yet, but Arthur can give you his cot for now, won't you?" His eyes cut to Arthur who looks like he's going to argue, but doesn't.  
  
She's shown the way to his small tent propped up by a wagon and is given privacy to change into something one of the women of the camp brought her. It's a nightgown, unmodestly tight in the chest and hips area, but it'll do for now.  
  
"We'll get you some new clothes, don't you worry dear," says the brunette after she collects Florence's bloody dress. "And you're safe here."  
  
"I have nothing more to worry about. William is dead, may his soul rest in hell," Florence says simply.    
  
"There's always something to worry about," says another woman in a thick accent, coming up behind the one holding her bloody clothes. "Arthur should've left you. Dutch said no more passengers and he meant it."  
  
Florence shifts uncomfortably under the red head's stare. "Miss O'Shea, shush now. Don't scare the poor girl anymore than needed."  
  
"Mary-Beth, if she is going to live in the real world with the rest of us and become an outlaw, she _must_ understand this life is hard." Florence sits up straighter under the hard eyes of Miss O'Shea.  
  
"I have led a hard life, Miss O'Shea. I will not shy away from work," Florence says in a stronger voice than what she feels. Her stomach flips again and again, making her sick. Something in Miss O'Shea's voice makes her scared, like a child facing the boogeyman.   
  
"Miss O'Shea, Mary-Beth, leave the poor girl in peace!" a voice yells across the yard. Florence tries to find the source, knowing it's female, but she can't see anything past the oil lantern that hangs on the edge of the wagon.  
  
"Good night, Florence. We'll see you in the morning," Mary-Beth says sweetly, clutching Florence's bloody clothes to her chest. She turns on her heel and walks off somewhere into the darkness.  
  
Miss O'Shea stares at Florence for a moment longer, waving a fan in front of her face Florence hadn't seen previously. She opens her mouth to say something, but turns before she gets it out.  
  
"You'll fit in just fine with some of the ladies." Arthur shows on her right with a bed roll in hand.  
  
"I'm awfully sorry he's making you sleep on the ground. You rescued me and are giving me a second chance, if there's anyone who should be sleeping on the ground, it's me."  
  
He waves her off, settling down on his back with his hat tilted over his eyes. "Don't you worry about me. Just get some sleep."  
  
Florence nods, turning over and facing the fabric they have against the wagon side. Sleep doesn't come easy to her. She closes her eyes, fighting the want to leave. It wouldn't do her any good.  
  
*  
  
Arthur wakes somewhere around four in the morning if the face on his watch is at all correct. He sits up on an elbow, groaning as his back protests. He has to go into town and get her a cot of her own or ask Miss Grimshaw to find her a bed that isn't his. Sleeping on the ground while he's out and about is hard enough.  
  
The cot is empty. In a panic, he sits up, searching for the girl. She couldn't have gone far, not in that too white dress. She'd stick out. "Lenny," he says, getting up as the boy passes his tent. "Did you see the woman, Florence leave?"  
  
"Charles is out on patrol tonight. Want me to see if he's seen her?" Lenny offers, perking up at the prospect of something exciting finally happening.  
  
Arthur shakes his head. "Too men come after her and we don't know what she'll do." He grabs his hat and makes sure his gun is still in his holster before he makes the long walk out to the beginning of the path. The trees cut out any dim moonlight from shining through and he takes longer as he tries not to trip over roots and rocks.  
  
"Charles!" he calls quietly. "Charles, you there?"  
  
"Morgan? What are you doing up so early? It's not your turn for another few hours, at least." Charles finds him stumbling over a large root.  
  
"That girl I brought back, Florence. She's gone. Seen her go?" Charles takes three agonizing seconds to answer him with a shake of his head. She's gone. Or she's run off. Why would she do that? Stupid woman got mad at him when he told her she was free to go. And he sticks out _his_ neck to bring her into the camp and risk Dutch's anger... what an ungrateful bitch. He breathes slowly, closing his eyes.  
  
He'll get his bed back. That'll be nice. But part of him is disappointed. He hasn't known her for long, that's for sure, but she's snippy and quick with her tongue. Dutch seemed to like her right away as well. Cursing, he stomps back to the camp, tripping over roots and rocks. He has to rationalize her disappearance. If she didn't wander off on her own, who took her?  
  
Arthur spots his horse, who neighs quietly and makes a path to him. His horse is still here. She can't have gone far. Did the women take her shoes as well? "If you're looking for your woman, she's over by the edge thataway," Bill grunts as he bumbles past Arthur, his hand on his fly.  
  
"Hey! Don't do that over here." Arthur pushes the drunken man away. "Go piss outside the camp, where the ladies won't see you."  
  
"Afraid they'll like what they see?" Bill's voice trails off.  
  
"Hardly."  
  
Silently, he works his way through the dark camp, using the oil lantern from his tent to make sure he's not stepping on anything that could wake up Dutch or half the camp. Voices drift to him and he slows down to listen to the conversation without being seen.  
  
"He was all I had. What am I going to do now?" Florence sniffles at the end of her sentence and Arthur's heart seizes. She's crying?  
  
"You'll move on. You'll find a better man," Abigail says. Abigail, out of all the women, has the biggest sense of logic. He knows Miss Grimshaw would tell her to stop mourning the asshole and Mary-Beth would console her with laughter and games. Abigail has a talent he's always admired of being able to do both.  
  
"He was such a sweet man. What happened to my William? Why would he beat me?" Florence's voice is weak, edged with tears he can hear.  
  
"Some men do that. They are sweet on you and then next thing you know, they leave you for a year to raise a child." Florence raises her head and turns it to look at Abigail. "I'm sorry Florence. I- I've had my own issues with my husband. The point is, you grow and learn. You are with the baddest outlaws." _Besides the O'Driscolls and no one wants to be with them._  
  
Florence wipes her eyes and nods. "Arthur the one who found you right?" Abigail puts a hand around the other woman's shoulder. "He'll look after you. Make sure your safe. He's a good man, Arthur Morgan."  
  
He almost left before Abigail brought him up. Feeling even more guilty about spying on them, he settles behind a tree and looks up at the cloudy sky as their talk continues.  
  
*  
  
Florence finds him asleep against a tree closest to where she and Abigail were sitting. Was he eavesdropping or keeping guard? She nudges his leg with her foot, jumping back when he snorts awake. Wiping away any drool, not that he had any on his chin, he slides up the tree. "Listening in on our conversation, Mr. Morgan?"  
  
"We have many enemies, Florence. I was simply keeping watching over ya'll." He walks away without another word, pulling out his pocket watch and sighing. "Do you think you can stay inside the tent this time? I have to patrol."  
  
"Let me come with you. Earn my keep. Prove to Miss O'Shea I belong here." Florence catches up with him, putting her hand on his shoulder to completely stop him. His eyes rove down her body and she's vaguely uncomfortably in the too tight dress.  
  
"You have no proper clothes."  
  
"I'll just wear yours. If you give them to me, I can fix them to fit my body." He's not that much bigger than she is. Florence stands at five foot seven, her shoulders nearly the width of his. Her father always said she reminds him of a draft horse.  
  
Arthur sighs, eyes once more on her body as he assesses what she said. "Fine. But don't complain if my pants fall down and your under clothing is showing."  
  
Florence nods excitedly, following him. He pulls out a blue button up work shirt, a simple brown vest and work jeans. She's given her boots back after he fishes them from the 'women's area' as she's mapped it. The jeans are too big, slipping when she takes a step.  
  
Rope is hanging off a corner of a hitching post and she ties it around her waist until something else can be figured out. "Know how to work one of these?" he asks, handing her a pistol.  
  
"No. William never let me shoot."  
  
"Forget William. Forget everything that happened back in Valentine. Now, know how to work one of these?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I'll show you after we're done patrolling. We have to get you a horse anyway. Can't have you riding with me all the time." Flutters work into her nerves, making her fingers shake as she hands the gun back to him. He plans on taking her out on rides. What does the gang do? He's killed before, having shot William in the head seemingly without hesitation.  
  
Dawn arrives faster than she wants it to, bringing the golden outline of the sun past the far off, snow-capped mountains. Florence follows him back into the camp, tripping over the too long pant legs. "Wish you had a skirt now?" Mary-Beth calls, watching her as Florence stops and gives her a smile.  
  
"There's freedom in pants, Mary-Beth. You should try it."  
  
"I'm all good with my dresses, Miss Florence. But I can take that in for you. Make it fit more proper."  
  
"And what will I wear until then?"  
  
"You could walk around in your under clothing, you won't hear me bitching." Florence turns around, glaring at the man who spoke.  
  
"Leave the lady alone!" A man approaches her, his weathered face charming. "Forgive Bill. He often speaks before he thinks." Bill turns ruddy, pulling his hat down over his face. "Name is Hosea. I was asleep when Arthur pulled you into camp." He holds out his hand and smiles widely.  
  
Florence relaxes, taking his hand. "Florence."  
  
"So I've heard. The whole camp has been abuzz with the new woman Arthur seems to have found himself."  
  
Arthur turns his face away, huffing. "Go get the pants refitted."  
  
Florence nods, looking between Hosea and Arthur. Mary-Beth takes her hand and leads her to a small, cornered off section of the camp. They've hung blankets to give privacy. Mary-Beth takes her hand and leads her to a small, cornered off section of the camp. They've hung blankets to give privacy. Mary-Beth takes in the hem of the pants and rolls them up, pinning them into place.

Florence sits in the corner with a blanket over her legs, head against a tree as she tries not to fall asleep. Her eyes drift closed and she can hear Mary-Beth singing quietly but poorly and then a slight chuckle at the end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are unedited. If you find an error, feel free to point it out to me! Thank you.
> 
> This chapter was so much fun to write. It sets up some great later scenes with Florence and Arthur. 
> 
> I know nothing of shooting guns, much less ones from the late 1800s, so I tried to take what my dad has taught me. Hope it translated well.

Hosea pulls Arthur over towards the horses. "Pants?" He raises his eyebrows and Arthur waves a hand.

"I don't know, Hosea. She's been a wild ride since last night. Coming out to patrol with me, stepping up against Dutch _and_ Miss O'Shea. That takes balls." He pulls out a small brush he keeps with him at all times and brushes the bay's fur. He still hasn't named this horse, refusing to get attached. It doesn't feel right. "I'll probably take her into town after Mary-Beth is done with the pants and get her some proper clothing."

"Clothing fitting for a lady or an outlaw?"

Arthur laughs. "Which ever she decides I suppose."

"Mr. Morgan!" Dutch's voice rings out. Arthur's back straightens, recognizing the voice from when he used to get in trouble. He doesn't have to seek Dutch out though.The man approaches them both, clapping his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Hosea."

"Dutch, don't give the boy too much trouble. I don't blame him for bringing her back. It won't hurt to have more pretty faces around the camp." 

"I didn't bring her back because she's a pretty face. I brought her back because her husband was choking the shit out of her," Arthur says, frustrated nobody's listening to him.

"Well, she needs to earn her keep. She told Molly she's not afraid of hard work. Put her to work." He turns away and starts to walk away, then pauses. "And not that kind of work either. We don't reduce our women to whoring unless they want to be whoring."

"Dutch, I know that." Arthur pats the bay's neck. "I'll take her into Valentine today and get her a proper horse. She'll learn how to shoot as well."

"Good. She's your responsibility now, Arthur." Dutch sighs. Arthur pauses, looking at the man's back. Was it wrong to bring Florence back here? Should he have left her to be choked? Killed. It's in the forefront of his mind--if it wasn't for him, she'd be dead on the floor of that hotel and they'd assume she was another whore with a man who got out of control.

"My responsibility? The last time I checked, she's an adult."

"And we don't know what her previous life was about. Was she spoiled? Did she grow up on the back of the horse? Until we know, she'll be yours to keep safe." 

"You do not intend on keeping her around do you?" Miss O'Shea asks, coming up behind the men. Arthur notices she keeps her distance, turning her nose downwind to keep from getting the stench of horses. "She's trouble."

"How do you figure, Miss O'Shea? If she's trouble, I'll go drag her out of the camp and ask her to never come back." Arthur doesn't move. "She just arrived yesterday night. She hasn't been here long enough to be trouble."

"Molly, she'll be quite alright." Dutch turns and puts an arm around her as if to try and ease whatever she's feeling. Florence barely looks like she could hurt a fly with her large, innocent green eyes and small puckered mouth.

And she was quite alright. At least in the clothing department. He lays down on the cot, getting a nap in when she nudges his foot. He raises the hat over his head, holding back the urge to whistle. She looks good in men's clothing. Her large form fills out his old pants and shirt well. Mary-Beth did a good job bringing it in, though he suspected for the shirt, she didn't have to do much. 

"You look good, new girl," Bill says. He seems to be in a constant state of drunkenness or dumbassery. "Men's clothing suits you _well_." He draws out the last word.

Florence turns around and crosses her arms. Arthur sits up, pulling his leg into him as he watches the stand off. Will she say something? Bill walks off and Arthur hears a full sigh of relief and watches her shoulder release. "He won't stop until you say something."

"Why don't you say something?" Florence asks not turning around to look at him.

"If you are going to live like an outlaw, you need to learn how to speak like one."

Her shoulders tense again and her words grit out through her teeth. "The last time I spoke against a man, he beat me."

When she turns to glare at him, he can see a necklace he hadn't noticed yesterday and faint lines of bruising along her brown skin. "Nobody here will beat you. And if he tries to lay his hands on you, he'll have to answer to all of us." Arthur makes a wide sweep with his hand, indicating the whole camp.

*

"Come," Arthur says, standing and putting a hand on her shoulder. Florence blinks up at him. "Let's get you a proper horse. An outlaw needs a horse." They stay there for a moment, silence dragging between them. 

Hosea clears his throat. "Going into town? Take the ol' black fella with ya," he says pointing to a large shire horse on the edge of camp. "Doesn't take well to folks around here." 

"Surely you don't mean-" Florence puts a hand to her mouth. He doesn't look all that mean.

"We need horses that trust us. Horses that will help, not fight." Hosea gives her a crinkly smile. 

She puts her head up and as straight backed as she can manage, she walks slowly towards the shire horse. He tosses his large head, pawing the ground. "Oh shush you." She puts her hand out, brushing his nose as he continues to throw his head. "Stop it. You're being ridiculous." Making shushing noises, she moves her hand over his face, catching his head gently.

He huffs at her, bringing his head down to look her in the eye. "See? You aren't so bad."

Conversation continues behind her, voices rising and falling in pitch as she continues her hands over his body. One hand down the back of his leg and he lifts it easily. Her fingers trail his strong stomach and down his back leg which he also gives her. He's larger than she is, wouldn't be built for speed, but he's strong and she can't let them just sell him.

"I think we found her a horse, don't you?" Arthur asks Hosea as they come up behind her. 

"Well, I've be damned." Hosea laughs. "Let's get you a saddle."

Florence tries not to notice all the people gathering around, watching her with the shire. There are more women than she expected having only met Mary-Beth and Miss O'Shea. Arthur comes back with a simple blanket and saddle. "Do you know how to put it on?" he asks quietly.

Florence nods. She only knows how to put it on because she's had to run from William before. Too bad she hadn't stayed out. Focusing on the saddle alone, she bends to tighten the cinch, hair falling into her face. Someone grabs it, bunching it behind her head softly. "Name's Tilly," the woman says, giving her a wide smile. "Nice to have more women folk around. I was afraid we'd get overtaken by men." Her laugh slides over Florence's skin and it's a pleasant sound. "I'll braid your hair before you leave."

The crowd has dispersed, no longer entertained by her ability to calm down the shire. Florence is taller than Tilly and has to bend down slightly to allow the woman to braid back her auburn hair and tie it off with a leather string.

"Alright, alright. Let's get going." Arthur already has his bay and he's waving his hand. 

Florence grabs the shire's reins and follows him on foot out to the path they took up. In the daylight, with her breath misting around her, she can barely make out the road. "You've got yourself a good little place here," she says to break the silence. 

"Yeah. I think that's why Hosea pointed it out to Dutch. It's out of the way and we're mostly hidden." He shrugs. "Sometimes we get people who wander into camp and if Bill doesn't draw his gun first, we can send them on their way without too much trouble."

Arthur mounts his horse, motioning her to do the same. Even as tall as she is, it's hard to get on the shire's back. Her foot raises uncomfortably high and she's glad for the pants rather than a skirt. Finally hooking it into the stirrup, she pulls herself up into it, standing one-footed as she gains her balance enough to throw over her leg. "You'll have to get faster at that," he mutters as if he's taking stock of what she needs to do.

*

The ride is mostly peaceful. Gunshots ring through the air and Arthur puts his hand on his pistol out of habit, looking towards the echoing while his bay dances under the saddle. He glances at Florence who looks like a deer caught in the sights of a barrel. Voices with a tinge of accent carry towards them. "Let's get to Valentine." The outline of the town is almost like an old friend. Almost. If it weren't for the fight he gotten into last night and the corpse with his bullet in it, Arthur would feel no anxiety in coming back to Valentine.

Hooves kick up dust as they settle into a trot. During the ride, Arthur watches Florence like a hawk for her reaction. More gunshots echo through the air, seeming to get closer as the town begins to take shape. If he watches her just long enough, he can see her shaking. They slow down as they hit the main street. "First clothing."

Florence says nothing, her eyes drawn to the ruts in the mud under the shire's feet and a stray hand playing with the golden feathers around her neck. "Florence, we'll be okay," he says quietly, breaking whatever spell was over her. 

Her eyes are wide, with fear of being back in town or the gunshots, he doesn't know. All he knows is he wants to soothe her, calm her and make sure she never feels this way again. It's in that moment, he's caught between wanting to hide her away from the ugly and push her to manage life on her own. 

Florence looks at him. "I know we are," she says in an attempt to look braver. It doesn't work. Her forehead is still lined with worry and her eyes are so wide, he can see most of the white.

"This town is relatively safe." Except the bar fights and shots in hotels and men beating whores.

"You-you're the man who shot William back in the hotel!" a man growls, pulling at Arthur's leg to stop him.

"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else, friend," Arthur lies easily, leading his horse away from the idiot. Florence is looking wildly between him and the man at his foot.

He purposely bumps into her shire, sending the black horse into a slight panic. "Arthur!" Florence cries as the horse runs ahead. "I can't stop him!" Men try and fail to stop the frightened horse.

Giving the man who bothered him a cold smile, he kicks the bay into a faster trot, catching hold of the reins and turning both animals around. The man just stares at him, hand on the rifle across his back. Will there be trouble? Arthur can guarantee the man won't make it out alive, but it seems the man knows better. "Do you know him?" Arthur's hand follows the man's form walking into the saloon.

"Yes. William took to hanging around a bunch of strange, rowdy men." Florence pets the shire's side. "It's alright, Chance. You're alright."

"Chance? Why Chance?"

Florence looks at him, the emotion in her eyes almost unreadable. The dark green sparkles under the full light of the sun. Shivers begin at his lower spine and travel upward to the base of his neck. "Because you gave me a second chance," she replies simply, returning her attention to the huffing horse. She dismounts, taking the reins. "Perhaps it's best if we go on foot to the tailor's. We wouldn't want you to bump into him again." Is she unaware or playing unaware? Unsure of the footing and territory they've ran into, he leads her to the tailor.

Arthur leaves Florence outside to get a chance to talk to the tailor by himself. "Look, I have an unusual request," he begins, pushing open his jacket and putting his hand on his gun. It's almost as good as drawing it. "My friend out there. She needs clothes, but not lady's clothing. Men's. Shirts, pants, vests. Perhaps a heavy jacket."

The tailor's eyes are glued to Arthur's belt. "Ye-yes sir."

"And there will be no arguing. No asking if she's sure. You will get her what she wants, make what she wants without a damn word. Do you understand me?" Arthur flips the jacket back over his gun, turning around and leaning against the counter with a smile. 

Florence spends the next hour picking out a few outfits, most of them browns. He suggests a dark green, long sleeved shirt that would be good for sleeping outdoors in. It brings out the color in her eyes. The tailor kept good on his word, never asking her if she's sure. Only suggesting different styles to better fit her and fixing the clothing that doesn't. 

Now dressed in the dark green shirt, a black, fur lined jacket, dark pants, women's riding boots and a tan leather vest, she's just missing a hat. Arthur picks a circular one off the top of a shelf and plops it on her head.

He's able to add in a small holster and belt without her seeing. It's slightly extravagant with tree embroidered into the dark brown leather. It's an impulse buy, but she'll need a holster to hold her gun, so a necessity. 

He tries not to physically show how much it hurt his pocket when he had to pull out the cash to hand to the tailor. The holster is stowed away in the pocket of his blue coat. They exit with brown parcels, stuffing them into her empty saddlebags. "I'll pay you back every cent, no matter how long it takes me," Florence says, hiding under her new hat.

"You'll worry about nothing." Though his personal stash is smaller, he gets satisfaction watching her in that shop. 

"Don't you tell me what to do." Her voice is edged with tension.

"Whoa, Florence. You can pay me back, but I'm not worried about it. I'll pick up more money later." Arthur peers at her over the bay's back. Grabbing the reins of the bay and Chance, he heads for the stable. She follows without another word, though the air becomes thick with conversation about a woman dressed in men's clothing.

The stable is warm and smells of hay and horse shit. Both smells he'd rather have than Bill's piss in the middle of camp. It's a smaller stable, two rows of three stalls on either side and a large walk in area. "Looking to sell this fella," Arthur says, patting the bay's side. "Need something fast with good stamina."

The owner nods, pointing to a dabble palomino. "Quick and wiry. Could get you out of trouble if needed. He does get spooked easily though." 

The palomino tosses his head in greeting to Arthur. "I'll take him." He sells the bay and pays for the rest on the Palomino, switching over his saddle. The entire exchange between him and the owner, Florence stayed quiet. Stayed underneath her hat. If she's going to use it to hide, he'll have to take it from her.

Or shoot it off her head.

"Name him for me." Arthur stops the horses outside of the stables, keeping out of the way of the door and wagons.

"Your horse? Why?" It's the first time Florence has looked at him since he bought that damned hat.

"Because." He can't think of a real reason to give her. "Just do it."

Florence looks at the palomino, putting her hands on his muzzle and laughing softly when his lips open over her palm. "Lemon," she says with a quick glance at him,

Lemon. _Lemon._ He holds his breath, resisting the urge to sigh strongly. "Lemon it is." What a silly, ladyish name. If only to see her smile once again.

What's happening to him? Why is he so quick to please her?

"What's next?" Florence swings herself into Chance's saddle easier.

*

Learning how to shoot. It sounds exciting in theory until he presses the weight of the pistol into her palm and she stares at it. This gun delivered the bullet that killed her husband. As much of a bastard as he was, he didn't deserve that death. Or did he? She's torn between the emotions still warring inside of her. Florence puts her finger on the trigger gently.

"Hey! Whoa!" The gun is wrenched from her hand. Pain blooms in her finger and down into her wrist. "Never put your finger on the trigger until you plan to kill the person you are shooting at," Arthur scolds, handing her back the gun more gently.

His hands are on her, in places only William's have been previously. Using both, Arthur shifts her weight so most of it sits on her back foot. He squares her shoulders, twisting her body in different directions. "I know it's uncomfortable," he says quietly, putting his hands on hers and making sure her form is good. Her body warms from where he touches her. "You'll get used to it and remember to breathe."

With his chest against her, she follows his breathing. Inhaling deep and exhaling. "The gun is a part of you. It's an extension of your arm. When you think like this, you'll aim easier."

Arthur set up an empty beer bottle on a stump a good thirty feet away. She takes the first shot, jumping when the gun fires. She would've dropped it if it'd not been for his hands keeping her steady. The shot takes her back to the hotel room, blood bursting through William's forehead and coating her vision red. "You're alright," he says in a low tone. "That was supposed to happen."

Florence wants to drop the gun. Get it out of her hand. Memories like that aren't supposed to happen. She doesn't say anything to him. Doesn't bother to tell him what the gun holds for her. "I-I'm not okay."

"You are. Try it again now you know what to expect." He's the very photograph of patience. 

Florence shakes her head, raising her hands again and getting into that twisted position. He fixes her hips, letting his hands linger far too long. She looks over her shoulder at him, wisps of hair sticking to her neck. He steps back, clearing his throat. "Eyes forward. Focus on that tip on the end of the barrel." 

She breathes, seeing the tip. When she breathes out, she fires. The jump doesn't startle her as much and she hits the stump below the bottle. Arthur breaks into a smile that she catches in the corner of her eye.

They stay at it, Lemon and Chance grazing away. Each shot she fires, her husband becomes further and further away from the man he becomes and she starts to aim at the man he was. In her mind's eye, William begs her not to shoot. To put down the gun. He cries how sorry he is and he never meant to hurt her. To become to monster he was. When will she be released from him?

The sun dips further, golden rays outlining the mountains. She's long shed her jacket and rolled up the sleeves to her elbow. Florence doesn't know how many bullets they've wasted teaching her to shoot, but she's better. Collapsing into the dust against a large rock, she puts the gun gently on the top of it.

"What do you think? Ready for the outlaw life?" Arthur looks as refreshed as ever, having removed his own jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. 

"I'm ready for a break." Florence stretches, looking up at the golden sky.

He laughs and it fits into the scene. Shards of the bottle reflect the sun, casting warm light across the dust and scattered patches of green grass. "Here." 

Arthur holds out something leather to her. She sits up, dusting off her shirt and taking it. It's a long, large strip of leather with what looked like a gun holster. The holster has dark green trees embroidered on it. "It's beautiful, Arthur."

He turns slightly red and Florence laughs. "Yeah... well..." He scratches his head. "It's nothing."

It's not nothing. It's everything to her. She stands, fitting the belt around her waist and experimentally putting the in it. It hangs with a solid weight, making her feel slightly more comfortable in the wide open space. Of course, after she's practiced with it.

It's like the feathers William got her. The best thing she's ever owned. Untying the leather, she looks down at the golden pendant, memories flooding her senses. She can smell the flowers he brought home and taste the chocolate. Arthur remains silent. 

"He got me this on our first anniversary," she says quietly. "He wasn't always that man you shot."

"Do you regret me rescuing you?"

A lot has happened in the past twenty four hours. Her husband is dead. Her life is upside down. She's in pants and running with what seems to be an outlaw gang. She knows how to shoot a gun. 

His question hangs in the air as she remains still, staring at the feathers in the fading light.

"Maybe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so excited about this, I just wrote the second chapter. That never happens for me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and don't forget to let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll get into the missions from the game in the next chapter, I promise. I've just had so much fun setting up for Florence and Arthur. If you have a favorite mission in the early hours of the game, let me know!
> 
> Thank you everyone who has commented! It's helped me stay motivated to update this. And it's made me excited to continue!
> 
> I'm going back to work tomorrow, so updates will be more sparse. I'll try and update once a week and if not, because I'm doing NaNo, every two weeks.

Lemon's gait is nice and rhythmic, Arthur nearly falls asleep. The sun has long set and they began their long trek back to the camp. Florence hasn't said a word to him since she told him she possibly regrets him rescuing her.

What kind of shit is that? The man was choking her and if it wasn't for him, she'd be _dead_. He tries not to let it bother him, not get underneath his skin. But it's sitting there, poking him with a stick. Little holes in his skin."What kind of shit was that?" he finally asks. "Maybe? Maybe?" His voice unintentionally raises.

Florence is slower, taking the shire at a more leisurely pace. He pulls at Lemon's reins, turning the horse around and stopping Chance in his tracks. "If it wasn't for me, Florence, you'd be dead."

"You don't think I understand that? I know that?" Florence clutches her horn. The metal bites into her skin, he can see her losing pigmentation around the curve of her palm. "I know I'd be dead, but my husband. My hus-" Tears roll down her eyes and she savagely wipes at them. "My husband is dead. He's gone. I can't be expected to just be okay with that."

It's rare he feels guilty and this is the second time this woman has had this affect on him. "Right. I'm sorry."

She's not done in her anger.  Her eyes are blazing and narrowed, trained on him. "He wasn't the best. Hell, he was the worst man I've ever interacted with. But he was. My. Husband." Her body shakes as the tears continue like a constant stream down her face. 

"Let it out," he says finally after finding his voice. "Scream if you need to."

Florence looks at him like he's crazy, her eyebrows pulled up so high, it tightens the skin around the corner of her eyes. "You ain't no lady, Florence. You're wearing men's clothing. Pants. You know how to shoot a gun." Poorly and her aim could use some serious work, but she knows how to work it at least. "Scream! Let the world know your pain. It certainly let you have its."

Florence takes a deep breath and for a moment, he doesn't think she'll do it. Turning her head towards the sky, the line of her throat and the faint bruises against her skin straight at him, she breathes in deeper and screams as loud as she can. Chance pins his ears against his head but stands firm.

Lemon dances, nickering and neighing in fear, tossing his head. "Oh, stop it boy," Arthur whispers. He calms, huffing through his nose as he shifts his weight.

"Feel better?" 

Florence nods, massaging her neck. "Surprisingly yes."

"Good. Good." He turns his horse around and continues down the path, the tension between them lessened. It's still there, him killing her husband, but soon that'll fade. Soon she'll find her own way in life and he won't have to be so rough with her. Or talk to her like he did. 

"Oh mister! Mister!" a feminine voice shouts.

Arthur groans. They are so close to Horseshoe Overlook. So close. "Yes?"

"Oh mister, please help. My husband and son are- please help!" The woman flails her hands, pointing back the way she came. 

"If I'm going to help you, I need to know what you need help with." Arthur rests his hand on the sawed off shotgun at his belt.

"The O'Driscolls, they have my boys. My husband and son. They have them because they couldn't pay the borrowed money back. You have to help. Please, you have to."

*Keep a low profile. Don't go starting fights you don't plan to win.* Dutch's voice echoes in Arthur's mind. 

Going up against the O'Driscoll boys could end in his death. Or Florence's. And he doesn't have time to gather men to go against them if he plans on saving the men. Plans whirl through his head. He could send Florence ahead, but she doesn't know this area and there's no guarantee they would follow her. Of course, if she mentions the O'Driscoll gang, they would gather without a word. 

"Where? Where'd they take your boys?"

"I heard one of them mention the Cumberland Forest."

He pulls out his map, holding it up against the light of the moon to read it properly. Cumberland Forest isn't far from Valentine, but from what he remembers what little he's explored of the area, there's a large fortress he didn't dare touch and trees everywhere. Finding their hideout, assuming the fortress isn't tied to the O'Driscolls, is going to be time-consuming and hard.

"Go back to camp," Arthur says. "I want you to get Bill, Javier and Lenny. Tell Dutch what's going on."

Florence shakes her head. "What's going on? Who are the O'Driscolls?"

"This isn't the time for questions, Florence. You need to ride back to the camp and get the boys." He wheels Lemon around and takes off towards Valentine, kicking up dust in his wake.

*

Florence encourages Chance to run as fast as he can, but it's obvious the large horse isn't built for speed. His loud hoof beats are thunderous and agonizingly slow as she finally recognizes the clump of trees. A shout nearly makes her pull her gun. The voice isn't familiar to her.

"Who's there?" The outline of a man advances on her, a large rifle aimed at her head.

"Flo-Florence! Arthur brought me back to get some men for..." What was the name again? The dark haired man, as she can see when he steps into moonlight, has serious scars across his face. Fresh ones.

"Oh, you're the woman Arthur brought back. John Marston." He waves at her, shouldering the gun. "Men for what?"

"Some gang... O'Skulls or O'Discolls or-"

"The O'Driscolls?" John growls.

"Yeah. That's the one."

"What about them?" 

"They have this poor woman's family. Said they couldn't pay the gang back, so they took the son and husband."

"So?" John turns around. "It's not our business. Dutch told us to keep a low profile and going against the O'Driscolls is doing the exact opposite."

"They're in the Cumberland Forest and Arthur has already gone ahead."

"Of course he has. You might as well go and tell Dutch." Florence kicks Chance into a trot, nearly riding the horse straight into the camp. Miss O'Shea's voice stops her, telling her to take the animal out. It wastes precious time, but she does as she's asked without question.

"Dutch!" The man appears from the centered tent, book in his hand. He seems to be always reading. "Arthur sent me to tell you that the O'Driscolls have some woman's husband and son. He went to rescue them and he wants me to gather Javier, Lenny and Bill."

He rubs a hand over his mouth, pointing his fingers down onto his chin. "Boy's going to be the death of himself. We aren't usually in the service of helping and rescuing without money in return, but since Arthur has taken it upon himself to go without speaking to the group, I suppose you'll have to take them to Cumberland Forest, won't you?" His eyes burn holes into her, peering deep into her broken soul.

"Me? I don't know where Cumberland Forest is. Much less-" How to lead men into battle. Assuming, correctly so as she'll learn later, they are going to be shooting at each other. The gun is no longer a comforting weight, but rather a death-trap attached to her waist. "Who did he want again?"

"Javier, Lenny and Bill," Florence repeats.

"Javier! Get Bill from patrolling and someone wake Lenny." It takes a few minutes for the men to gather around her. She's glad for her height, though most of them still have a good two or three inches. 

Lenny is barely twenty years old, if that. A child in the midst of adults. Javier and Bill both shrug on jackets, watching her for instructions. "Uh." Intelligent. 

"Arthur headed to the Cumberland Forest. We should go after him?" Her sentence ends in a question with a slightly higher pitched word. She clears her throat. "Yeah. Let's get going."

Chance is slower than the other horses. The men ahead of her easily joke, tossing back and forth words over the wind, leaving her out of it. Lenny slows his horse to match her pace. "You'll fit in, eventually. Just give them time to get used to you and the idea of a woman going out with us," he begins as if he can sense her thoughts.

"You a mind reader?"

Lenny laughs. "No, ma'am. I just know what it's like to be on the outside."

The temperature drops the longer they are out. Valentine is quiet and dark as they trot through, kicking the horses into a gallop as soon as they leave the main street. "Did the woman say how many of the gang came and picked up her boys?" Javier asks quietly.

"No."

"Did she say how they took them? Guns? Amount of horses? Anything?"

"No. She didn't. And I didn't think to ask." Florence glares at the man's back. 

"Why is Arthur wasting time rescuing this woman's family? Is she paying us? Sucking our dicks when we get back?" Florence bunches her face together, disliking the talk coming out of Bill's mouth.

"Not in front of the lady, Bill," Lenny chides.

"Lady? Boy, she ain't no lady, parading around with pants and a gun to her hip. If she's going to ride with men, she needs to learn to be a man."

"I don't think pissing on every tree will help me." Florence gives him a tight smile as he turns around to stare at her. It earns her laughter from Lenny, who she decides she likes very much. 

The landscape is a blur as they come closer to the Cumberland Forest. Rocks, dirt and sagebrush give way to tall, skinny trees fresh with leaves. "Can you tell which way Arthur went?" Javier brushes off Lenny's question, dismounts and begins to look at the ground. Without a word, he leads his horse by the reins down a path Florence doesn't see.

It's a small clearing with nothing but tents. She can see a boy not much older than fifteen and what looks to be his father tied up back to back near the main campfire. "Where's our money?" one of the men growls. "Where'd you put it?"

"We don't have the money! We don't. Please let my boy go. He did nothing to you," the father pleads.

Florence steps forward to help them, but is stopped by Lenny's hand. He puts a finger to his lips, pointing to a dark figure not far from them that has to be Arthur. Her heart leaps. In the quiet of the forest, the darkness of the night, he's a knight in shining armor. Much like the ones in the stories her father read her when she was little. God above, hope his soul rests in peace.

Arthur sneaks back towards them, keeping low. "How many did you count?" Javier asks.

"There about nine or ten. I can't get a clear shot."

"Why are we rescuing these idiots? If they didn't have money to spare, they shouldn't have borrowed it," Bill mumbles.

"Shut it, Bill. I'm in no mood to play." He nods to Florence, his back to her. "Look, you barely know how to shoot a gun and you sure as hell don't know how to aim. I want you to stay here."

"No. I'm not going to stand by while you all risk your lives."

"We've risked our lives before in worse fights and have come out on top. Just stay here."

Florence huffs, feeling like a child scolded for getting too close to fire. "You tell me to find my own way, to stand up. And now you're telling me to hide? Pick one."

Arthur puts a hand through his hair, turning to her on his heel. "Standing up to Bill is one thing. Standing up to one of the more ruthless gangs without the proper gun training, that's just stupid."

Stupid. She'll show him stupid. In one motion, without thinking, she stands and enters the camp. Her foot snaps a twig and the men twist, several guns trained on her.

*

Stupid, stupid woman. Who the hell knew she'd be so goddman stubborn? "We need to move in, men," Bill says nearly too loud.

"No, fucking damnit hell. We rush in, we kill her." Arthur thumbs the trigger of his rifle. 

"Oh please help mister," Florence cries, looking behind her as if the boogeyman was going to jump. "A man was chasing me. He wanted me to-to-"

Some of the men chuckle. A dark haired man approaches her, his gun trained to the ground. "Don't you worry, lady. You're safe here." His voice is like sugar, sliding over Arthur's skin. He can see Florence shiver when the man's hand glides up her arm to her shoulder. 

And he can see the translation of her movement from her right hand down to the holster. "No!" Arthur shoots a man behind him in the head, signalling the beginning of a firefight. Florence instantly drops, hands over her head, making herself as small as she possibly could.

Bill whoops with excitement, shooting his gun from his hip. Luckily none of his shots hit the men they are rescuing. 

Somehow in the midst of the chaos, the man directly in front of Florence hadn't gotten killed. "Stop it right there mister. Take your friends and turn around, go along your merry way." He waves his gun at the tied up men behind him. 

"I can't do that, friend. You have something that belongs with me." Arthur gestures to Florence. "You let her go and then we'll turn around." It's four guns against one and the O'Driscoll isn't dumb enough to think he'd win.

"Guns down." Arthur makes a signal, Lenny, Bill and Javier lower their guns. The O'Driscoll keeps his gun trained on each of them, switching from one man to another as he pushes Florence hard. She lands against Arthur and he embraces her. 

The O'Driscoll backs away, tripping over various things on the ground. Seemingly satisfied no one raised their gun on him, he whips around, searching widely for his horse. Arthur rises his rifle with one arm and shoots him in the head.

"What the hell? You told him you'd let him go!" Florence pushes against him, backing into a tree. 

"And all he would've done is returned with more men. It's best they are all dead than leave one alive with a grudge." He shoulders his rifle and unties both the father and son. "Your wife is beyond herself. I would suggest you don't go borrowing money from strangers again."

"Oh yes. Thank you. Thank you!" The father and son grab two horses at the edge of the camp.

"Javier, please go with them. Make sure they don't get back into trouble. Bill, just get back to camp. Lenny, keep Bill out of trouble and let Dutch know we were successful." The men nod, glancing between the rising tension of Florence and Arthur, glad to be gone.

"You have got to be the stupidest woman I have ever met," Arthur yells after they leave, throwing his hands in the air. "What were you thinking? Walking into the camp like that? You could've easily been killed."

Florence stares at him, eyes wide and shiny with unshed tears. _No. Don't you dare cry._ "You tell me to take care of myself and when I try-"

"I told you to stand up to Bill. A mostly harmless man who, if he pulled a gun at you, would be out on his ass before he could think properly. Not in the middle of a damn O'Driscoll camp. Did you think before you went through with it?"

"No. I didn't. I had it and you never gave me a chance." Florence glares at him, her eyes strangely more beautiful with the tears. It must be the moonlight.

"And what would you have done? Shot all ten men by yourself? I am responsible for you. Your safety is my concern. You can't just walk off like that. There are plans. We are a team. You have to be a team player to fit in with the gang." Arthur slaps his hands together, punctuating his sentences.

"I'm sorry you killed my husband," Florence spits at him. She makes a show of wiping her tears as if this will calm down his anger.

"You can't guilt me, Florence. You could have left when I took you from Valentine, but instead you came with me. And if you are going to be out and about with the men, you have to learn how to stop and listen. Not just act like you're on your own. It's not just your life at stake. It's everyone else's." He hasn't met someone this single-minded and stubborn since John. He runs his hand through his hair, staring down at the dead body of the O'Driscoll besides him. "I was a bit harsh, but what I'm saying is true. You have to be a team player. You've got to understand that all of this is a team thing. _We're_ a team." He motions between them.

Florence grabs her hair and undoes the tie, running her delicate fingers through the interwoven strands. "You're right," she says in a small voice, looking away from him. "You're completely right and I'm sorry." She sighs, puffing out her cheeks as she does so. 

Guilt flares in his chest, something she's quite good at, but his anger is justified. He almost lost her. _Whoa._

Shaking the thought from his head, he watches her. They stand for a few moments, the only sound between them a wolf howling in the distance. "Come on. It's late and I'm exhausted. Let's find a spot to camp."

"Camp? Why not go back?"

"I'm dead on my feet and you look like your about to fall asleep. I don't need either of us falling out of the saddle." Arthur grabs Lemon and Chance's reins, walking them a good distance through the narrow spots in trees until the camp of the O'Driscolls all but disappeared. If a lawman were to come up on the camp, they wouldn't suspect Arthur and Florence.

He finds a small clearing and gathers wood for a nice fire. Florence sits, looking unsure of what to do. He gives her his jacket, noticing the way she's subtly shivering. A roaring fire warms them in no time. "I am sorry the way I went about talking to you back there."

"No, you were right. I went in thinking I could prove something. And all I did was risk my life." She puts her hat on the ground next to her and tucks a hair behind her ear. "It's hard to be told to be your own person and still have to be rescued around every corner."

"I've been telling you this for a little more than twenty-four hours. You jumped into it. Don't take on the O'Driscolls. Take on Bill," he says with a slight chuckle. 

Florence joins in on his laughter. He pulls meat from his pack and sticks it on the end of his knife. "Hungry?"

*

"Famished." Florence settles against the tree behind her back, eyes turned up to the stars. She almost can't see the midnight sky. Her stupid actions leave her feeling weightless and scared. She'd done that without thinking, stepping into that camp. Just to prove to Arthur she can take care of herself. Why is she so quick to prove she's not some helpless woman screaming for the first man to jump to her rescue? 

Her fingers search for the feathers she got rid of. William, no matter how sweet he was, is part of the past. It's the best thing to let go of it. He's dead. Now and forever. "Careful, it's hot." The meat steams, mixing with the smoke from the fire. He hands her the knife and she waits for it to cool. 

Does he care for her? "Why are you so insistent I stay alive?"

"Why do you keep putting yourself in positions that might kill you?" Arthur fires back. "I didn't rescue you to have you killed."

Florence nods, taking small bites of the meat. It's got no real taste to it, but it's the first real meal, she realizes, she's had in a little over twenty-four hours. "Right."

"You said something about Chance having a second chance at life. Not that we were going to kill him, but don't you think maybe," Arthur shrugs, sticking another piece of meat on the knife and sticking it over the fire, "you named him Chance for your second chance as well?" His blue eyes look sideways at her, mouth slightly open in a smile.

"You're smarter than you look, Mr. Morgan," Florence says, laughing quietly.

"Well, miss, my brain is there, I think." His smile widens. "Now we'll have to figure out this whole camping thing. I only have one bedroll and tent."

Florence's stomach flips at the thought of sharing a tent with him. He takes the piece of meat into his mouth, holding it like an odd shaped cigar out the side and pulls his tent off of the back of Lemon. Setting it up takes little to no time. The corners are nailed down at the corners and two sticks go up on either side. It's enough room for one, maybe two if they sleep nearly on top of each other. 

"I can sleep out here. With both jackets, I'll be okay." Arthur seems to consider it.

"Nah, we should be okay. Come on." He finishes the meat quickly, making sure the horses are hitched to trees. She climbs into the tent, already warming from his body heat. "You sleep. I'm not quite tired yet."

Florence doesn't argue. She gives him back his jacket, taking off her and curling next to him so close her shins are up against his thigh. 

*

Her breathing evens out. Arthur looks behind him, twisting his body as to not move so much he'll wake her up. Why is he so protective of her? It's ridiculous. It only reminds him of what happened the last time he got involved with a woman. His heart broken and he was sent on his way by her daddy. He hasn't met Florence's daddy, but he can't imagine she'd want someone as rough as him.

As he's repeated to many strangers, he's not a good man. And that's not bound to change.

Florence is a stupidly smart, stubborn, beautiful woman. If he continues down his current path, he _knows_ he'll fall. Arthur lays down, their bodies touching. She's on her side, headed turned to him and hair falling in her face. He tucks her soft hair behind an ear, studying her features. Florence shifts, getting closer to him, tucking herself against his side. He doesn't dare move in case he wakes her up.

The light dies down, things around him becoming darkly outlined. Out of instinct, Arthur raises an arm and wraps it underneath her neck. She adjusts accordingly, sighing gently, her breath dancing across his cheek. This is as far as it's going, he swears to himself. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things about this chapter... 
> 
> If the characters seem OC, please let me know. I'm still trying to find their voice and it's hard. Especially concerning Molly O'Shea. I tried to turn her character up just a smidge, making her more paranoid than she seems to be in the game. If it seems out of place, let me know. Thank you.
> 
> Also, it's un-beta'd. If you see any edits that need to happen, please let me know.
> 
> This one was fun to write and I hope you all enjoy it as well! Thank you so much for the continuing support on this.

Florence wakes to the sound of birds. She keeps her eyes closed, feeling the warmth of Arthur against her, his hand splayed across her back. Did he do this on his own accord or did it happen in their sleep? They live in their own little world, away from the shooting and the dead husbands. He breathes in slowly and she risks a look up. His eyes are closed and he's peaceful. The usual frown he wears on his lips are gone. "Are you gonna keep staring at me?" he rumbles, peeking at her with one eye.   
  
"Perhaps. You're peaceful for once," Florence replies with amusement lacing her tone.   
  
"I'm always at peace, miss. Peace with the world gone to shit. Peace with no more room for folks like me."   
  
"Knights in shining armor? There is always room in the world for people like you, Mr. Morgan."    
  
Arthur shakes his head. "No. Bad people. I am not a good person."   
  
"You have yet to prove that to me."   
  
"Give me time. I will." He removes his arm from underneath her, leaving her back to the cool morning air. Birds chirp, welcoming them back to the real world. The fire is barely alive, a few coals made it through the night, but it's mostly ash. Florence remains laying down, capturing the last of the warmth and the tingling feeling in her limbs. How many years has it been since she's been held so tenderly?   
  
And why him of all people? Waiting for the tingling to subside doesn't seem like it will work as Arthur is already kicking dirt over the fire to kill what little life remains. Chance neighs at her as she emerges from the tent. Florence laughs, patting the horse as he lumbers up to him.    
  
"Come learn how to take down a tent." They take it down together. It's as easy to take down as it looked to put up. He rolls it tightly, putting the stakes in the middle and ties the bundle to Lemon's saddle. His bedroll is next and she blushes, such a stupid reminder of barely ten minutes ago.   
  
Eager to get back into the saddle and distance herself from the weightless, tingling feeling in her chest, she mounts Chance, petting his soft neck as he shakes his muscles under the saddle.   
  
Arthur is on Lemon and they find the trail back to the camp. "Life ever settle as an outlaw?"   
  
He rubs his chin, placing his hat on his head to warn off the sun. It's slightly warmer out. Now that they're on the horses again and moving, she removes the jacket, laying it gently across the rear of Chance. "No. We’ve been on the run from the law.”

“For what?”

Arthur seems to hesitate telling her. “Not something I’m proud of,” he says quietly. She lets the conversation drop, focusing on the small hairs of Chance’s mane.

Tension begins to build again. Maybe asking about the past wasn’t such a great idea. She locks away that little tidbit for later. The sun rises higher in the sky, the fog of her breath fading as they wear down the path at a slow walk. “What’s the plan now?” she asks, hoping to get back to their natural order, where things fell into place.

Trees begin to line either side of them and soon they were down the path of the camp. “Took ya long enough to get back to us,” John’s familiar husky voice calls as he steps from behind a tree, his rifle relaxed in his hands.

“I didn’t want to ride the trails that late.”

“But you could send Bill and Lenny back.”

“Miss me or something Marston?” John narrows his eyes at Arthur’s joke and shakes his head. He waves them through. Sounds of camp drift down the narrow path, bouncing off the trunks of trees. 

Miss O’Shea’s shrill voice can be heard from behind the canvas wall of Dutch’s tent. Her words jumbled, sentences incoherent. Florence hears her name and it makes her stop from next to Chance, his saddle half off his back. What did she do this time? She’s been gone almost an entire day. Or an entire day. 

“Florence right?” a voice says. A pretty blonde in a man’s jacket approaches her with a kind smile stretching across her face. Florence puts the saddle down next to the horse’s feet and holds out her hand. “Karen. I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to properly meet you. It’s been so crazy around the camp and…” Karen looks back at Dutch’s tent. “Miss O’Shea has been screaming about you for hours on end. God knows what she’s on about this time.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh highly unlikely. It doesn’t take a lot for Miss O’Shea to get her knickers out of sorts. You see,” Karen whispers, making sure the canvas stays closed as if Miss O’Shea will be summoned by her name, “she’s so used to laying low. Us being on the run from them lawmen isn’t good for her, you know.” She makes a sign towards her head. “Paranoid is what I call her.”

“Gossiping again, Karen?” Arthur asks, making Florence jump.

“Ain’t gossip if it’s true,” Karen says with an easy smile at him. Something jumps in Florence’s chest with the way Karen smiles at him. It makes her want to smack the girl across the face. Surprised by the strong emotion and urge, she bends to pick up the saddle and carry it over to a wagon. The woman is nothing but kind to her, so why… Is it jealousy? *No.*

This morning meant nothing to Arthur. Nor to Florence. She shivers, shaking off the feeling of his hand on her back. Of the warmth across her front and the peaceful bubble they lived in for a brief moment.

The canvas wall is whipped back, Miss O’Shea and Dutch come out, heading straight towards her. Miss O’Shea’s usually beautifully done up hair is in tatters, strands falling in her flushed face. She looks like she’s been drinking but her eyes are the eyes of a wild and aware woman. Dutch follows close behind, a little more put together, though his face is pinched, lines around the eyes more accentuated.

“They came looking for you,” Miss O’Shea growls. “Your men. They came looking for you. ‘Bout tore this camp apart. If it weren’t for the quick thinking of… You stupid woman. Did you lead us into trouble just as we are getting out of it? What disease ridden men have you brought back?”

“Who are you talking about?” Florence asks a bit too loudly. Her voice carries well over the camp and people stop to stare at her. Arthur stops, a bale of hay in his arms. He narrows his eyes at the scene, taking a step forward. Though she’s not sure at first if he’ll see it, Florence puts her hand up where it rests at her hip. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him nod ever so slightly. He goes about his business as if it’s an everyday affair to have women screaming.

And it might be.

“Who are you talking about?” Florence asks again, voice more controlled. 

“As if you don’t know.”

“I don’t! I’m not involved with any men or another gang.”

“They very clearly wanted you. They followed Arthur when he brought you back. What a mistake.” Miss O’Shea throws her hands up, clearly done with the whole thing.

“Miss O’Shea, I would never bring back danger here.”

“Oh? That’s not what I heard from Bill. Walking into an O’Driscoll camp without a plan in sight. Did you think you could bring Arthur in on your dirty plans? Turn him against-”

“Molly, enough!” Dutch says, cutting Miss O’Shea’s sentence off. She fumes at him, fists bunched in the skirt of her dress. Stomping away, she closes the canvas, but before it flutters shut, Florence sees Miss O’Shea drop onto the cot with her face in her hands. 

Florence glares at Miss O’Shea, though it turns to sympathy when she sees how broken Miss O’Shea really is. “I hope you know, Dutch, I would never betray Arthur.”

Dutch sighs, leaning against a horse hitch post. He closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair which is usually tamed by a hat. “I don’t know what to think right now, Florence. The men just about killed some of mine and if it happens again, someone will answer for their crimes,” he says, opening his eyes and focusing entirely on her. His brown eyes see right into her soul and she hopes he’ll see she’s telling the truth.

“Oh, Arthur, I saw that girl of yours,” Karen says in earshot of Florence. She glances at them, watching as he grabs Karen and they make their way to the other side of the camp. “In Valentine.”

*

“I would prefer if you didn’t mention Mary in front of Florence,” he says quietly, coming up on the area Strauss likes to frequent. 

“Getting sweet her? ‘Bout time. I was gonna set you up with one of the girls in town if you went any longer,” Karen purrs, wiggling her eyebrows at him. “She even left you a letter. It’s on your table if you’re so keen on reading it now.”

Arthur’s heart thumps hard. He can’t count the number of years it’s been and how young and stupid he was to think someone like Mary Linton would marry him. Her daddy said no, he didn’t want a dirty outlaw for his daughter. 

He’s aware of eyes and voices following in his wake, but all he can really focus on is the letter. He unknowingly pushes past Florence, his hands on her shoulders to gently move her out of the way. Her voice calls to him, but he needs to read that letter. It’s almost like water. If he doesn’t read it within the next few moments, he might die.

There it is. A white envelope assuredly untouched by other eyes. He tears it open, reading her terrible handwriting, but it brings him back. It hurts to hear her voice in his head reading the words to him. He sits on his cot, legs spread, letter dangling from one hand while the other is running through his short hair. Again and again and again, he tortures himself by reading the letter.

She’s not far from Valentine in a small farm. Has been there for a few months and hell, how long did it take her to finally reach out? *What does she want?* Arthur stands, staggering between anger and love for the woman. What is he thinking, going straight to her. Why is he going straight to her?

He grabs his hat from the corner of the wagon where it rests. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he announces to Florence who is sitting in the wet grass rubbing at her saddle with some leather polish. She goes to rise as if to go with him. He leaves without a word, hopping into Lemon’s saddle easily.

The horse grunts as he kicks him a bit harder than necessary. They thunder out onto the road, following the curves over the train tracks towards Valentine. The farm isn’t hard to find. It’s a modest two story house that could use some paint.

With Lemon hitched nearby, he knocks on the door, pacing back and forth until a tired, old woman answers it, pistol and hard eyes pointed at him. “Oh,” Arthur says gently. “I’m sorry. I’m looking for a Mrs. Linton.”

The woman stares at him for a long moment and leaves without a word. It slams shut and he’s once again left on his own. He stumbles down the steps, taking off his hat and looking up at the blue sky. What is he thinking? He could’ve burned the letter, pretended it never made it to his table. If Miss O’Shea had her way, it probably wouldn’t have. She didn’t like Mary and still doesn’t, talking about her like she’s some common hussy trying to steal Arthur away.

A creak catches his attention and there she is. Mary steps out of the house, hands demurely in front of her. “Arthur,” she breathes. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“What do you want Mary? Why did you reach out to me? Where’s what’s his name?” He whirls around to stand and look up at her. The sun beats down on his eyes and he moves to the shade of the porch, not far from her. 

“Dead.” Mary looks to the left, her eyes brimming with tears. A few fall. “A while ago.”

It’s like opening a chest and finding treasure that’ll turn to dust. Arthur stays very still, willing his heart to calm the shit down, sure she can hear the thumping over the nickering of horses and the settling of the house behind her.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, trying to catch her eye. “Your husband dies and you come looking for me? I’m not-”

“No! That’s not it!” Mary takes a step towards him, her hands out to stop his sentence. She halts, bringing them back to her chest. 

Why is he slightly disappointed by this? It sickens his stomach to ever think there was hope in it for him and her. “I need your help,” she replies after a long silent moment. “My family needs your help.”

And that sick tingling in his stomach is turns to anger. “Family? You mean the family that looked down on me? Why would I help your family?”

“It’s my little brother, Jamie.” Jamie. The boy was better than Mary’s family.

“I liked Jamie,” he says simply, taking a step onto the porch. He stands on the lowest step, building up the courage to stand next to her.

“He’s broken my daddy’s heart.” She takes a step down until they are one porch step away from each other. Mary sits, her head in her hands.

“He has a heart?” It’s meant as a joke, coming out more harsh than intended.

“Arthur…”

“Mary, I wasn’t good enough for you. My money, my life, me… None of it pleased him.”

“Jamie… he joined the Cheloians.”

Arthur shrugs, looking out at Lemon grazing on a patch of grass. “Good for him. He’s found a place in life.”

“A dangerous place. I’m sorry for what my daddy did Arthur, but Jamie is in trouble and he needs help.”

“So…” Arthur considers his next words, leaning on the railing. “I’m too rough to marry into your family, but you can ask me for help.”

“I’m sorry,” Mary repeats. “I think of you often and I…”

“That was a long time ago, Mary.” He’s ready to let his past be his past and when he thinks he’s finally done it, it comes back up, seeking him out with a knife in the back to alert him of its presence. 

“Let Jamie live his life and not the life daddy dreamed for him. He’s an adult,” Arthur says, standing up and brushing off the dust from his pants.

“Jamie is so innocent. I’m begging you. Please, please help me.” Mary stands as well, coming down the last two steps and taking his hands in hers. She looks up at him with her eyes, those eyes he loved to fall into every night. The eyes that haunted him from a window as she danced and hummed with her husband.

Arthur shrugs her off, needing to distance himself from it all. “Please,” she tries again.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She breaks him down like none other. It reminds him of Florence in a way. Both women could spell trouble for him.

“I’ll owe you.”

Arthur picks up his hat, brushing past her with a single sentence. “You already owe me.”

*

Florence finds things to entertain herself in the camp with. She helps Pearson with cutting the animals and learning how to skin small creatures like squirrels and rabbits. He seems to regale in telling her tales about his time in the Navy. 

She learns how to play dominoes after Lenny finds out she’s never played before. Poker as well and Karen joins them, a twisted grin across her plump face. Florence is sure she’s playing dirty, but she doesn’t care. They don’t play to gamble as Florence has no money to her name.

Speaking of money, how much does William have stashed back at their house? And why hasn’t she thought of going back there? At the end of their third hand in poker, she stands and bids them farewell. 

“Where are you going, Florence?” Lenny asks as he watches her saddle up Chance.

“Back to my home. There might be money and other such valuables there.” Arthur’s been gone a long time, the sun is now in the east preparing for the journey down. 

“Should you be going without anyone with you?”

“Arthur does.” She knows how petulant it sounds, but this is a good way for her to prove she can ultimately take care of herself. 

“Well, Arthur is trained in guns and can aim. Can you?” Lenny rubs the back of his neck, a knowing smile across his lips. So the story of her walking into the O’Driscoll camp has not only made its way around camp, though Lenny was there to witness it, but so has her inability to aim with the pistol at her hip. She just needs more practice. And Dutch rightly doesn’t want her shooting near the camp in case it draws attention.

“I’ll be okay. It’s not that far from Valentine.” Lenny waves his hand. 

“I won’t argue, but I can’t imagine Arthur is going to be happy.”

“Arthur is off doing his own thing,” Florence snaps, wincing as it comes out of her mouth. With no other choice but to keep it, she presses the heels of her feet into Chance and he lumbers down the path. He’s so tall she has to duck as she comes out from underneath the dead trees marking the entrance.

It’s a left to Valentine and when she can hear the noises of the town, she takes a smaller road. There is no fence, though there used to be one. William said he’d get around to replacing it, but never did. Her house is small and squats at the top of a hill. It’s a one bedroom, something William also promised to change in case they had a child. Her property, though they’ll try and pass it onto her father or the man she marries if she so chooses so, is a reminder of those promises. They grow like weeds in the front, popping up with every word that comes from his lips.

Florence pats Chance and dismounts, hand on the pistol. She can’t aim for shit, sure, but it helps to make her feel safe in case those men Miss O’Shea spoke of were here. And what manner of men were they? Why would they go almost tearing up the camp of Dutch's gang looking for her?

He used to bring home groups of these men, some remaining the same, others new and order her to cook for them. Their living room would be filthy at the end, furniture stained with muddy boot prints and the smell of alcohol remained in the air until she opened every single window when he went to town.

Florence enters the house, the stale smell of it hits her. Propping open the door, she moves to the windows and allows lights in. It’s small and square. They managed to get a chair and a couch pushed against the wall. Her table, oak and sturdy, was about the only thing she was proud of in the damn house. Four chairs are flush against the edges, all of it gathered a very fine coating of dust. It looks untouched.

And now it’s not. Florence makes a right mess, tossing cushions from the couch and chair, cutting them open with a knife from the kitchen. Feathers fly all around her. She moves to the bedroom, emptying out both her wardrobe drawers and his. She finds a small stash of money hidden in a sock that thumped to the ground. It’s barely twenty dollars, but it’s a damn start. She also finds his golden wedding ring she can sell in town if needed.

Pocketing it all, she looks for things the camp can use in the kitchen. Knives are thrown in a bag that was hanging on the wall, wrapped in random bits of cloth as to keep them from cutting the fabric. Spices and different types of herbs is also thrown in. It’s not a lot, but it’s something she can do to thank them for taking her in.

Chance neighs outside. Florence freezes, hearing the footsteps of horses outside. Male voices murmur and she can’t make out the words. “Florence! Come on out dearest,” someone calls. “Don’t make this hard.”

Florence moves slowly through the kitchen to the living room. The door is a gaping mouth, just inviting them in. She needs to close that first. A gunshot nearly stops her in her tracks as it burrows itself in the wall directly behind the door. “Don’t you dare,” the dark haired man says. “You know, William told us a lot about you.”

There are three men all on horses. The dark haired one that shot gets off of his and points his pistol at her. “He told us how sweet you were. How *good* you were to roll around in the hay. We all thought...highly of you.” He waves his gun in the air. “Until you had him killed.”

The other men shift, glaring at her. “You see,” he continues, “I don’t take kindly to someone killing off my men. And it happens so often because many of them are stupid enough to get caught or thrown in jail. Going up against the O’Driscolls, now I can’t take them on. But you Florence… you can pay for dear William’s life.”

“I… I didn’t kill him,” Florence says without thinking.

“Oh you’re right and we found that quaint little camp. But they have guns and men. Better and smarter shooters than I seem to have and to go against them would be the death of me and my gang. But you… you aren’t anything, are you?” He shoots again, the bullet grazes her arm.

It stings and immediately blood begins to pour down, soaking in the green shirt. Florence grabs it, remembering the first thing her mother taught her. *If you get a cut or get shot, apply pressure.* Florence stands strong or tries to. Her legs are visibly shaking, knees threaten to buckle.

“They won’t come looking for you. There’ll be no revenge on your head.” He shoots again, entirely missing her, but she thinks that’s the point.

“Who are you?”

“Me?” The man laughs. “William said nothing of us?”

“He used to… bring home men. But not you.” Florence leans against the door jam, pushing the small wooden block she put in front of it to keep it open. She stops when he take a step closer, fear in her throat.

“I never came back to his house. And I’m not the leader of this gang, just the right hand man. The one who gets the pleasure of seeking out those who wrong us.” If she can just keep him talking, she could close the door. It wouldn’t save her life, but it could give her long enough to run.

“The gang… who are you? Why haven’t I heard of you?”

“Oh but you will.” One of the men protests and the dark haired man shoots above his head, sending the complaining man’s horse into a rear. “She’s dead as anything, what does it matter?”

*

After seeing Jamie and Mary off, Arthur could seriously use a drink. He begins to head to the saloon, stopping at the doors. Drinking isn’t going to make the past go away and drinking alone is pathetic. Sighing, he heads back to Lemon. 

A gunshot spooks the horse as soon as they get out of Valentine. It’s a little ways off. Now a gunfight, a gunfight isn’t pathetic. Maybe shooting up men could help him forget everything. He pushes Lemon into a gallop and heads down the trail that seems to lead to a small farmhouse that needs repairs.

Three men is all he counts. Whatever they are after, it seems they didn’t think the owner much of a threat. A broken down wagon is perfect to hide behind as he scans the scene. *Chance?* No… That’s a different shire.

“You took my William… turned him into a monster!” Florence’s voice is wavering and weak. Damnit.

Arthur grabs his gun, preparing to make a bolt for it. He has to kill the man pointing a gun at her before he decides to fire.

“No!” the man screams, shooting into the house. She screams. He can’t see her from this angle, unsure of whether or not the man shot her.

“No. William was a monster before. We simply… encouraged it out.” How many more bullets are in the gun? How long will the man continue to play with her? “He was so eager to join. To take part.”

Take part in what?

“Enough talking, dear woman.” He points the gun into the house.

Arthur acts before he can think clearly. The barrel of his rifle lines up with the man’s head. Blood explodes shortly after the shot rings in the air. Horse and human screams are hard to distinguish apart in the chaos of it all. A man on horseback takes a shot towards Arthur, it veers off far to the left, splintering him with wood from the wagon he’s hiding behind.

The man on the horse goes down with another bullet in the brain. Arthur considers shooting the one running, but Florence is still screaming. Or at least it sounds like her. It could easily be the horses. He shoulders his gun and runs towards the house, stepping gently, ready to grab the shotgun in his holster.

Florence is ashy, kneeling on the floor. Her left hand holds a wound on her arm loosely, dried blood caking on her shirt. He can see it still bleeding as it burns a trail down her jeans where her arm lays stationary. “Florence,” he says quietly.

She raises her head, green eyes usually so vibrant are dull with pain. “It’s me. I have to move you, okay?” Florence says nothing, hair plastering ot the back of her neck with the help of sweat. He moves as slowly and gently as he can, putting his arms underneath her body and lifting her. They barely fit through the door and he tries to take most of the scraping as to not disturb her, but her groans of pain shoot straight for his heart.

What is she doing out here by herself? What the hell was she thinking? And who allowed her off the camp without supervision. Dutch would tell him she’s his responsibility and if she walked off, it’s his fault and he wouldn’t be wrong. Anger at himself flares brightly like a fire in the night. Arthur was so caught up in seeing Mary again, he completely forgot about her. Selfish.

Except… she isn’t something of his. She may be his responsibility, but that doesn’t make her something more. Does he want her to be something more? Florence shifts, knocking him from his thoughts. He grabs Chance’s reins, knowing she’ll never forgive him for leaving the horse there and makes his way to Lemon. 

It’s awkward getting into the saddle with her in his arms and Chance’s reins pulling at one of his hands, but he’s able to do it. She’s nestled tightly between him and the saddle horn. Though time is of the utmost importance, he takes his slower than he wants to. Every jostle seems to push the injured arm against his chest and she groans. “Stay with me.”

He speaks to her the entire ride back to the camp, resisting the urge to gallop into the middle and demand help. Miss Grimshaw is the first to notice the blood and take her from Arthur’s arms with the help of Charles and Javier. They carry her quickly to the med tent, laying her down and fluttering over her until Miss Grimshaw shoos them away with an angry word. “I can’t help her with your hovering,” she snaps simply, turning the light on the lantern up. “Oh dear.” She clicks her tongue, cutting the sleeve away from Florence’s arm.

“Arthur, leave.” She doesn’t tell him Florence will be okay. Miss Grimshaw doesn’t waste time on polite nonsense. The woman believes the truth will set you free, no matter how hard it may be to swallow. Arthur does as he’s told, crossing the camp and ignoring everyone trying to reach out to him.

Dutch passes a drink into his hand. It’s a warm beer in a jug. “You’ll need this to get through the night.” 

“No, Dutch. I’m good.”

“Are you? Drink Arthur. There’s nothing you can do for her right now.” Dutch is right. Dutch is constantly right. He takes a sip of the alcohol, wincing as it disgustingly slithers down his throat. Warm beer is the worst. “You really like this girl.”

Arthur downs the drink, needing the alcohol to have this honest of a conversation with Dutch. “I don’t know,” he says honestly.

Dutch chuckles, turning his head back to the med tent. It’s the brightest spot of the camp, drawing the attention of those who missed the drama. 

“You can’t lead her on, Mr. Morgan,” Tilly says from his left. “This woman has been displaced in the world. Her husband is dead and she’s likely confused.”

Arthur remains quiet. Tilly isn’t wrong, but he’s not sure how he feels. Or how he’s going to approach this. His heart is still bearing scars from Mary all those years ago. He’d given the woman his heart and she gave it back to him in pieces and that took years to recover from. So why the anxiety? Why the worry over Florence making it alive?

Time passes slowly, stars twinkling to some unheard music. He drinks three more beers, the weight of the liquid settling unwell in his stomach. Dutch had gone to bed, unable to get Arthur to speak anymore about Florence.

When he met Mary, he’d been young and full of hope. Time was good. Money was good. He wooed her right away, stealing her out from underneath her daddy’s plans. But family came first to her and she eventually turned him away, marrying into a proper family. Into a proper home.

He fell hard and fast for her, despite the warnings of Dutch. “No girl like Mary will want an outlaw,” he said to him. Arthur shrugged it off, convinced she’d run away with the gang. Live on the cupse of society, never truly fitting in anywhere and always being able to explore the vast countryside. 

Dutch had been right as Dutch is mostly right. The past drags him down under, threatening to drown him if he doesn’t grab hold of something. “I don’t know how I feel about her, but I know how she makes me feel.” Weightless, tingly, happy, scared and angry. Calm. At peace with the world and his place. 

“It’s a start,” Tilly says from her seat on the grass against the wagon.

Miss Grimshaw finally turns down the lantern, coming straight for him. He stumbles up, holding a hand out against the support. “You smell like a saloon, Mr. Morgan,” Miss Grimshaw says in a low tone. She frowns, disapproving of his way of coping.

“Sorry Miss Grimshaw. I’ve just been--” He hiccups. “Mighty worried.”

“She’ll be… okay. It was a gunshot to the arm and I got the blasted bullet out. I don’t know if she’ll have full range of movement in that arm, only time will tell.” Waving a hand in front of her face, she turns her nose downwind. “You can see her if you like, but don’t wake her.”

Arthur isn’t quiet in his path across camp. He trips over hay bales that made their way into the circle of tents and pots set out for drying after a good wash. “Arthur, you ass, shut up!” John’s voice echoes.

“Sorry.” He tiptoes the rest of the way, watching the ground for things that could easily trip him. It seems like an eternity ago he left his tent to make his way towards her. Florence is sleeping under the flickering flame, her skin still too pale for his liking. Miss Grimshaw removed the green shirt completely, showing some sort of undershirt. He’s not sober enough to look away from her, admiring her stomach and the curve of her breasts. His bedroll is on the ground next to the cot.

It whispers his name really. He lays down, out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I like ending my chapters on people sleeping. I considered leaving this on a cliff-hanger but it didn't seem right. Maybe next time.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Leave a comment if you like and let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems to be taking a clear path away from the main story line (which I still haven't completed) and that is why it is now listed as an AU.

It’s a dull ache in Florence’s left side. She tries to roll over and open her eyes, but the pain flares when she moves her left arm. Snaps of yesterday’s adventure leak into her mind. The shots around her, the man’s frensized but calm aim at her. His words about William, the lies he spouted or were they lies? “Don’t move,” a soft voice says above her. Mary-Beth.

“What happened?”

“Oh dear, you really are stupid sometimes, you know that?” Karen’s voice floats in. “Going out by yourself without the proper protection.” Florence opens her eyes to find both Mary-Beth and Karen standing over her, cutting most of the sunlight aiming straight at her face.

“I had protection. My gun.”

“Did you use it?” Karen leans back, allowing the sun to hit Florence full in the face. She blinks and shakes her head, clearing the webs from it. “No. Arthur had to come and save your ass.”

“I didn’t need saving,” Florence insists, leaning on her right side and sitting up on the cot. Her feet hang over the edge and graze wet and cold grass.  At least she didn’t sleep until noon.

“Girl, I understand not wanting a man rescue you at every given opportunity,” Karen says, kneeling and brushing back Florence’s hair. Mary-Beth nods behind her, giving the bruised woman a small smile in support. “But there are worse men than Arthur to do the saving. If you don’t learn how to aim a gun and hold your own in a fight, how will you expect to be able to save your own hide?”

Florence sighs, running a hand over her tired face. Her entire body feels like she was riding for days and the dull ache in her left side has turned to flames licking at the center of her upper arm. Oh yeah. The man had shot her but it only stung when it happened. “I didn’t realize how much damage a bullet could do,” she says quietly and quite, in her opinion, dumbly as she twists her head to look at the covered wound. Spots of blood seeped through the otherwise pure white.

“Oh Florence.” Karen laughs, shaking her head. “You have a lot to learn.”

So it seems. Florence is forced by Miss Grimshaw to take it easy. The older woman just about had a heart attack when she saw Florence up and moving about. They at least give her one of her other shirts to throw on so her undershirt is completely covered. She sits at the table, playing with the domino chips, setting them up into a line and watching them as they topple over. “Having fun?”

Florence looks up at Dutch. “Nah. I’m stuck here.”

“For good reason. You were shot, Miss Florence.” Dutch sits opposite of her, turning the chair around so the back faces her and he’s leaning over the top. “You shouldn’t have gone out on your own, you know,” he says, helping her build up a longer line.

Florence focuses on the white and black dotted rectangles in front of her, not willing to acknowledge he’s right. That everyone in the damn camp is right. If she’d only waited for Arthur, she would’ve been fine, but that would have put him in danger and possibly got him shot. “Who are those men?” Dutch’s asking it gently, but she can tell this won’t be the last of this kind of questioning for a while.

“I don’t know,” Florence says desperately, looking at him. Her hand knocks over a domino in the middle and the right side of the line cascades down, the light porcelain tinkling together with a satisfying sound. “I don’t know. It was about… a year ago William became more secretive. He hit me more, swore at me. Raised his hand after I undercooked a chicken.”

Dutch is watching her, not bothering to pick up the pieces. He folds his hands in front of him and she can practically trace the line of his frown down along his cheeks. She looks away, hating the feeling of his eyes intruding on the very private center of her. “I _wish_ you would believe me. I’m not the kind of person who brings trouble intentionally to anyone. I didn’t even know you all existed before Arthur showed up. How can… Please believe me Dutch.”

He’s quiet for a moment too long and Florence pictures them kicking her out, packing her bags and tossing Chance out with her. Or least she’d hope that would happen if it had to.

Dutch sighs, sitting back with his arms supporting him. “I do, Florence. I do, but I have to think of the people who have been with me for years and their safety.”

Florence’s stomach drops. She picks up a tile and turns it in her hand, looking at the reflection of the sun glinting off he smooth surface. Her face remains composed despite the battle of emotions in her head. “I know,” she says simply. “I know.”

*

“Remind me why we’re back here,” Uncle complains for what seems like the third fucking time. Arthur grits his teeth, looking down at the missing bodies. The farm is the way he left it except both corpses are gone. And they certainly didn’t get up and walk away. “Why didn’t you bring Javier if you needed someone to track for you.”

“Javier is busy.” He’s busy saving Sean’s ass from bounty hunters. “Now will you shut up and just help me look.” Arthur came back to the farm to look for a clue of those who men were. If they’re going to keep bothering the camp, he needs to know more. Perhaps they can ambush William’s gang before the camp gets overrun. A puddle of blood lays in the doorway of the front of Florence’s house with a large boot print in the middle. Someone came through here last night. Whether it’s someone looking for a place to stay for the night or rob, he doesn’t know nor does he care.

Uncle mutters something about his lumbago, a disease or disorder Arthur’s pretty sure he made up to keep from doing all the heavy lifting. He brought Uncle because it’s better to listen to Uncle’s incessant talks and complaints than Bill’s need for a drink. Both men get on Arthur’s nerves, but Uncle less so.

A quick inspection of the one bedroom house reveals something grotesque. A large bed with a frame against the wall takes up most of the bedroom. In the bed lays the headless corpse of the man who shot at Florence, his legs missing and entrails sneaking out of the lower, ripped half of his torso.Blood is splattered across the wall, words written messily in it. _I’ll find her._

“What is his damn obsession with Florence?” Arthur asks the corpse. Of course the man doesn’t answer. He searches the room more, finding that the head had rolled underneath the bed, though the man’s lower half seems to be completely missing from anywhere in the room and in fact, the entire house.

“Nothing seems out of the-” Uncle stops in the doorway. “What the hell happened to this poor fella?” he asks, stepping in and looks up at the writing on the wall. “And who is her?”

“For the love of-” Arthur stops before he says something he regrets and pushes back Uncle to the living room. He makes one more sweep around, just to make sure there isn’t anything that’s worth keeping stays in the house. He does find a diary put under a loose floorboard in the washroom with Florence’s name engraved on the inside of the leather cover. Unable to help himself, he opens the book to a random entry.

_William came home tonight in high spirits. But those spirits beat the daylights out of me once again. I don’t understand why he’s doing this or what his new buddies are saying to him about me. What happened to my sweet man?_

It’s short and there’s a splatter of dried blood above William’s head. She’s lived a hard hard and will continue to live a hard life as she becomes more comfortable with the gang. With herself. He shoves the small diary into his jacket, right next to his own.

“Uncle! Let’s go!”

Uncle comes out of the room, coughing and sputtering. “How do you stand a smell like that?”

“Smelling you every night at camp isn’t easy, you know.”

“Oh ha ha.” Uncle and Arthur head out of the house and for a quick second, Arthur considers burning the structure. Hide what’s inside of this because if the lawmen get wind, they’ll be up and down the trails from Valentine to Strawberry looking for whoever did this. “Let’s burn it,” Uncle says as if reading Arthur’s mind. He’s already half-way grabbing a bottle of alcohol and a rag from his saddle.

“Yeah, let’s.” Uncle gives a whoop, lights it with a match and throws it into the open house. The bottle shatters, flames spreading and licking at the wood in a journey to quench its hunger. It’s too late to stop the fire but regret passes through him and he can hope it doesn’t spread to the land around. They mount their horses and gallop away from it and for Arthur, he leaves something behind. A bit of the past to be consumed by the fire, never to show again.

“I’m going into Valentine. See if anyone has heard anything about corpses like that,” Arthur says, reining in Lemon. Uncle nods soberly. “Go back to camp and _please_  keep her there. I don’t care if you have to hogtie her.”

Uncle grins.

“On second thought, don’t hogtie her. Just keep her in camp.” Arthur turns Lemon towards Valentine.

It’s quiet along the road to Valentine and Arthur keeps his mind occupied by allowing himself to think of Florence in *that* way. It washes over him, settling in the bottom of his heart. How many years has it been since Mary broke his heart? Five? Ten? Why hasn’t he kept track?

It’s painful to remember that’s why. When she left him, when she listened to her daddy’s orders, it was like a bullet to the heart and it took him months just to get out of the camp. Dutch just about put a real bullet in his heart, threatening to kill Arthur if he didn’t go to town and pick up a whoring woman to get over Mary because she’s not worth his time.

Valentine materializes around him, shaking him from his thoughts. He hitches Lemon to a post right outside the deputy’s office. Two men are arguing about the cost of coffee when he steps through the door, hesitating with his hand on the knob. “Should I come at a later time?” he asks roughly.

“No, no. Are you a bounty hunter?” The deputy looks at him hopefully. “Here to catch some people?”

“More like looking for a person.” Arthur steps fully inside the office, finding it cramped and small. To his almost immediate right is a metal door leading to four small cells and one door against the outer wall leading out. “I’m wonderin’ if you’ve heard any reports of… corpses.”

“Mister, we hear about corpses _all_ the time. You’ll have to be more specific,” the deputy says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

Arthur didn’t want to say. Small towns talk and he doesn’t want this getting out. “Fine.” He leans against the wall with the board of posters on it, making a note to come back at a later date to pick one up. “I…” How much to actually tell them? He doesn’t want to say anything about Florence and his husband. “I rescued a woman from a gun fight last night and the next morning went back to the house to grab a few things for her. I found a corpse on the bed, intestines hanging out, head underneath the bed, blood everywhere. I’m wonderin’ if you’ve found something like that?”

The deputy seems to consider him for a hot second. “And if we have? Is the woman safe?”

“Yes, but that’s not the-”

“Then why are you so concerned about? We’ve got it from here.”

The other man stands suddenly and slaps the deputy outside the head. “We’ll take any help we can get,” he growls. “Names Joseph and this here idiot is Harry.” Joseph extends his hand out to Arthur and Arthur gladly takes it. “Can you tell me everything?”

It takes skill, but Arthur is able to tell Joseph as much as he can without bringing up Florence or the fact that he’s the man who shot William a few nights ago. He’d land himself in jail right then and there no matter if he was protecting a lady.

Joseph pulls a hand over his face, pushing Harry from the chair. Harry stumbles out of it, the two front legs hitting the wood hard. “Go on. Out. Go make sure no one’s causing trouble for us.” Harry nods, holstering his gun and pushing past Arthur with a stony look on his face.

Arthur isn’t sad to see him go. He’s been nothing but trouble since Arthur walked in. “Sorry ‘bout him. Sometimes he takes his job a little too seriously and won’t listen to logic.” Joseph collapses into the chair.

“These corpses are making more of an appearance, especially around Valentine. I’ve heard of some up near Strawberry and the surrounding lands between the towns, but it seems to circulate around this town.” Joseph waves a hand in the air, pulls out a metal flask and drinks long from it. He offers it to Arthur who refuses. “Gruesome shit.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“This woman you rescued, does she have any connection with the killings?”

Telling Joseph the truth would certainly aid in them finding the people after her, but it will also possibly land him in jail. Arthur shifts, looking out the window over his shoulder before answering vaguely, “I believe so.”

Joseph seems to be a bright man and nods. “There’s more you aren’t telling me and I won’t push.” He stands up, dusting off his jeans. “I appreciate the truth even if it wasn’t the whole truth.” Where did they find this man and why aren’t more lawmen like him? “I know our world is going through a change and that makes men do stupid things but this… Jesus, this is ridiculous.”

“Nah, I agree with ya. The house burned down. The corpse is gone.” He regrets letting Uncle throw the bottle but if it leads back to Florence, it could lead back to him. This investigation is already shoddy at best.

Joseph pulls at his face once again. “Look, I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you the locations of the bodies we found. We’ve preserved them just in case but it’s been hard with all the wildlife and stupid idiots who want a close look at it.”

Arthur nods and he pulls his out his. Joseph draws five circles, most next to Valentine and one over by the stable by Strawberry. “I don’t usually worry about the corpses in Strawberry, but this one struck home. It had the name of my wife in blood. Now I don’t know if that was a coincidence or not, but it happened.” He slaps the map. “There you go.”

*

Arthur doesn’t visit any of the places, not today. He needs to get back to camp, speak with Dutch about what they’re going to do. When he rides into the camp, it’s strangely quiet. Neither Lenny nor John’s voice greets him. Chance is gone as well as he hitches Lemon to the post and removes his saddle from the poor horse.

“Uncle!” Arthur finds the old drunk fast asleep against the wagon. He kicks his leg and Uncle sputters awake, handing blindly searching for the pistol that isn’t there. “Where is Florence? Where is she?”

“Calm yourself pal,” Uncle grumbles. “She left.”

“I asked you to do one thing…”

“Dutch told her to leave. Who am I to get between that?” Uncle shifts and is back asleep, snoring louder than a train.

Goddamnit it all to hell.

Arthur marches into the camp, pushing back his hat and preparing to fight Dutch on his decision. He doesn’t always-- no, he never fights Dutch on his decisions. Arthur trusts the man with his life and trusts him to make the right call. This one--this one feels wrong. It sickens his stomach and speeds his heart so it’s nearly coming through the skin on his neck. “Dutch!” He hates how his voice shakes around the edges, making him sound panicked.

“Arthur, boy, did you find anything worth checking out?” Dutch closes the book and sits back on his cot to look at Arthur.

“You sent her away. Where is she? Where’d she go?”

“She’ll cause trouble. Bring men upon us that we don't need. We’re trying to live our life and keep a low profile. Florence would have made that impossible.”

There are no words for Arthur. He splutters through his sentence. “You never do anything without consulting me first.”

“You were attached to that girl like fly on honey, Arthur. You would’ve fought me.”

“You’re damn right I would’ve. You sent her to her death.” Arthur throws his hands up in the air and spins around, headed straight for Lemon. It’s too late to put the saddle on him, though Arthur does put the saddle bags over him to at least have a bed roll if he has to sleep out. “I’m bringing her back and then we can talk about what to do with the gang after her.”

“We shouldn’t be doing anything, Arthur!” Dutch yells after him as he gallops out of the camp.

*

What is there for a woman to do but laundry and whoring outside of having a home and husband? She attempted to go back to her home, but only found it burned to the ground. Whether it was an act of God or William’s friends threatening her, she doesn’t know. Luckily the fire burned very little of the surrounding land. If she absolutely had to, she could contact her brother in New York and get him to take hold of the land and allow her to stay there. Though she knows if he found out William is dead, he’d be having her on the next train out without a second thought. No, it’s best if she tries this on her own.

Inadequately set for camping out in the open, she tries many different methods of starting a fire. Rubbing sticks together, rocks igniting off of one each other. Even a wet match she found in the mud, but nothing seems to work. She sits against the very same wagon Arthur hid behind as he saved her life, her shoulder shaking from the work she forced it to do. In reality, she should have never left the camp, but Dutch was right. He was gentle as he told her what she needed to do, but hell, he was right. It’s not fair to bring down the wrath of William’s friends on people who did nothing but save her.

And that’s why she has to look for them first. If she can find them, then they’ll leave Arthur, Mary-Beth, Karen, even Bill, and all the folks back at the camp alone.

“Thought you’d come back here,” Arthur says, approaching her on Lemon.

“It’s all I know.”

“Yes, I suspect it would be.” He dismounts and approaches her, stopping short of doing something. Was he going to hug her just then? And why didn’t he? “I thought I lost you.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Something crosses his face and makes him hesitate again. She almost pushes but it’s not worth it. She finds her feelings for the man to be well past liking.

“Come back to camp. Dutch made a mistake. We’ll protect you and go after that wretched gang,” he says, holding out his hand.

“It’s not fair to make people pay for my husband’s mistakes.” Arthur glares at her and pushes off his hair where it makes a ring of dust on the ground. He really wants her to go with him.

“Florence, you need to listen and listen closely.” He crosses the distance between them, coming up short and then turns around, pacing away. “What Dutch says may be true but... “

*

Is he really going to confess his feelings for her after only a few days of knowing her? She’s just so fucking stubborn and beautiful and smart and…

“You’ve earned your place in that gang and it wasn’t right for him to kick you out,” he finally says dumbly.

Florence raises an eyebrow at him, green eyes blazing across his face, searching for the lie. “And how have I done that? I’ve only eaten your food and taken time away from you.”

“I am my own person. I may listen to Dutch when he has a good idea, but most of the time, I go do things on my own. Just come back with me. Don’t do this. Don’t _be_  like this.” He desperately waves to the horses. “You know you won’t survive out here on your own and with that gang searching for you, the rates of survival are even smaller.”

Florence looks back at the burned structure and guilt razes through him much like the fire through the wood. “Alright…” He almost lets out a whoop of excitement, barely holding back when she throws something into the house. “My husband’s wedding ring. I was going to sell it to pay you back but…”

“That’s a more appropriate place for it.” He closes the distance and places a hand on her shoulder in support. She leans against him. “Come on. It’s dark and I don’t have the proper tools to sleep outside.”

The two of them turn around and mount their horses, leaving Florence’s past long behind. Now if only he can do that with Mary and move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate all the kudos and comments.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my NaNo project for the month. When November is up and I give it some rest, I'll be coming back and refining it and *reuploading* it to the site. In the meantime, I am searching for a beta. If you'd like to beta this story, you can reach me on Tumblr at SpillingComputerInk

Miss Grimshaw yells at Dutch first then Florence. “What were you thinking, girl? You got any common sense in that shit brain of yours?” she asks roughly, inspecting the stitches. “You nearly opened them with all that roughing you’ve been doing.” Dutch stands there like a scolded child, smiling at Florence.

It was a quick turn around. Everyone welcomed her back, well, almost everyone. Miss O’Shea had no words for her and Florence thinks that’s just fine. “I’m sorry. I was-”

“You were nothing.” Miss Grimshaw tsks and bandages it back up. “You have to take it easy. No use in wearing yourself out just to try and keep up with the men. I’m ordering camp rest from here on out.”

And for the next few days, Florence spent her time in camp, reading books Dutch has in his collection, learning to make her own clothing and cooking with Pearson. She had given Pearson the herbs and spices she’d taken from her home and is glad to see them in use. The stews benefit from all of it as well does camp morale. 

Arthur is gone for most of that time, hunting down debt collectors for a German named Strauss. “What does it involve?” Florence asks as Arthur sits at the table with a bowl of stew. She’s nearly taken over the domino set, hating the game but loving to set them up in little lines and watch them fall after one another.

“Nothing you really want to know about,” he replies gruffly, hunching over and spooning it into his mouth.

He’s brought her back small things. Flowers, a rabbit’s foot she keeps in the bottom of Chance’s saddlebag because it upsets her to see the poor thing, pretty pieces of rock. Karen notices too and teases her about it.

“Come on. I’m stuck here for at least one more day.” Her arm had stopped hurting a while ago, but Miss Grimshaw wanted to make sure the wound was fully healed. She’ll have a nasty scar on her arm when it’s all said and done. “I’m *bored*, Arthur.”

He sits up and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “You want to know? Fine. Herr Strauss lets people borrow large amounts of money at a high interest rate and when they can’t pay it back, they rarely can, I beat the shit out of them until they agree to give it back to us plus interest.”

That frail old man? The one who looks absolutely harmless? Well, not entirely harmless. She has noticed the way his buggy eyes follow her across the camp. The way he searches her face when they come into close contact with one another. “Oh.”

“I told you you wouldn’t like it.”

Florence shrugs. “It’s just the way it is, right?”

They sit there for another hour or so, him helping her setup the dominoes in a swirl and her knocking it over again and again. She’ll never get tired of the clinking sound of the tiles hitting each other. The sun sets behind a line of mountains off in the east, outlining each individual peak in red and pink. 

“I’m going to bed. You coming?”

Florence puts the tiles away and follows him. Hopefully tomorrow, Miss Grimshaw will let her go somewhere. Anywhere.

Arthur’s small space has been widened just enough to put another cot inside of it. She helped pay for that cot, giving him the money from William’s stash, even though he kept insisting she keep the money for herself. Afterall, she earned it.

Cot by cot allows no path for them to step between, so keeps her boots on the other side of his. Shivering as her feet hit the grass, she jumps over his and lands deftly in the middle of hers, burrowing herself underneath the blanket. Arthur shakes his head with an amused smile across his mouth. “What? I’m cold.”

For the last few nights, since he got this cot anyway, Florence finds herself sleeping near the edge of hers to be closer to him. She notices in the morning where their hands have met across the metal bars and clasped in their sleep. It sends shivers down her spine and travels into her stomach, making her slightly more awake.

“Good night Florence,” Arthur says, staring into her eyes as he lays down.

“Good night Arthur.”

*

Arthur flips onto his back, woken by the call of Charles waking Marston for patrol. He hasn’t had to do it only because he’s been out most of the time, coming back to camp to sleep. He’s avoiding Florence, if he must be honest with himself.

In his journal, he’s drawn her a thousand times _at least_  and he’ll draw her a thousand more. How do you court someone like her? He shot her husband. 

She whimpers next to him, her fingers flexing as she’s trapped in yet another nightmare. That’s the other reason he’s awake.

Florence gets trapped in these nightmares, whimpering, edging on screaming her lungs out. He scoots her back, the two of them barely fitting on the cot. Adjusting, he brings most of her body onto his so she’s not on the edge and his back isn’t against the metal frames. This isn’t the first time he’s done it.

She instantly quiets, turning her face into his shirt, tears soaking through the fabric. “It’ll be alright,” he says quietly. 

Nor is it the first time he’s been caught.

Karen seems to be a night bird, always wandering camp and getting into people’s things. She never opens the leather journals, but rather just looks at what people have collected. She showed him the small box of things he gave Florence and it jolted his heart for a moment. Now she stands against the wagon, arms crossed and staring down at them. “Careful or you’ll turn into Miss Grimshaw,” he says playfully.

Karen gives a short chuckle. “When are you going to tell her you like her? Is this something I have to do?”

“I would prefer if you didn’t. I’m working at my own pace.”

“And it’s a slow ass pace, Arthur. If you don’t snatch her up, someone else will.” It’s the same words she tells him every night. She climbs into his cot and sits there a while, brushing back Florence’s hair. “She’s a bit like Jack, isn’t she? So innocent you want to protect her from everything obscene in the world.”

Arthur moves his thumb as her shirt in a gentle circle. “That’s the problem. We want to protect her when we should be dropping her head first into shit.”

“Give her time.”

“She’s had time, Karen.” He turns his head so he can speak clearly to the blonde next to him. “She’s been in a gunfight with some kind of other gang, she went into the O’Driscoll camp without a plan. She’s had time to sit here and realize what she wants…” *Hopefully him.* The thought enters his mind, completely forbidden.

“Arthur, you are looking to rush something. Slow the fuck down. Take her out to Strawberry. Bring her more flowers. Picnics.” Karen gets off the cot and makes her way around the wagon, poking her head back at the last second, “She likes you, you know. But give her time.”

He holds Florence tighter, not understanding why it’s taken him such a short time to get into a position where she’s nearly all he thinks about, but he has. His eyes droop closed, swearing to move off her cot before he completely falls asleep.

*

Florence wakes against something hard and breathing. Arthur.

Her feelings for him couldn’t be anymore muddled than they already are and people sure have noticed her laying across his chest. There’ll be rumors in no time. She carefully extracts herself from his arms, missing the warmth and movement of his body beneath her. 

She smooths out her hair, running her fingers through it while staring at the small round mirror of Arthur’s shaving area. A feminine throat clearing sounds above her and she looks up to see Miss O’Shea. It’s gotten to the point to where Florence just doesn’t care what the woman has to say about her.

“I…” Miss O’Shea looks away from her, biting her lip. Florence stays, curious as to what the woman has to say. She’s never been this kind before. “I’m sorry.” Miss O’Shea stands up straighter, her pale face pinched together in a haughty look. She then turns and marches back to Dutch’s tent, pulling the canvas wall closed.

“Well, that was quite unexpected,” Florence says to no one but herself. Her body still hurts, but it’s more of a general pain rather than the absolute fire that it used to be. She’s itching to get out of camp, even if it’s going to Valentine to make a supply run. To show she’s ready, she begins to brush down Chance, spending the morning as the sun rises higher and higher. Arthur finally emerges from the tent, stumbling around with sleep still etched in his face.

Adorable. There’s something about men who just wake up and can’t make out their surroundings just yet that makes her all gushy inside.

“Florence?” he calls quietly, probably being mindful of the people who like to drink and gamble until late.

“Over here, Arthur. I’m still here.”

*

Arthur could have shot someone. He woke without the weight of her on his chest, even though he swore he wouldn’t do that. Holding her during a nightmare is one thing, holding her throughout the night suggests something entirely different. It makes his heart stop for those agonizing moments when he can’t see her. It seems the world is hell-bent on running her out of camp and he’ll be damned if he allows that to happen.

Rolling out of her cot, he wakes almost instantly as his socked feet hit the dewy grass. “Florence?”

“Over here, Arthur. I’m still here.” Her voice echoes from the right of the camp. She’s standing in their little herd of horses, petting and brushing Chance who looks absolutely relaxed. He wishes he was the horse for a hot second.

He’s jealous of a horse. No. _Come on!_ Arthur rubs the sleep from his face, shaking his head to appear more awake. “Ready to get back on the trails, huh?”

Florence gives him an easy smile. “Well, I had a good night’s sleep and yeah… I’m pretty ready.”

“Oh? How-how was that sleep exactly?”

Florence shrugs. “We somehow switched cots and I might have to steal yours.”

Is she lying to him? He could have sworn they fell asleep pressed together, but she could’ve rolled onto his cot in the middle of the night.

“Yeah… yeah, you can have it if you want.”

Hosea disrupts his train of self-destructive thoughts. “Arthur, dear boy, glad to see you’re awake. I have an errand I want you to come with me on.”

Florence steps forward as if invited too and Hosea laughs. “Yeah, you can come. We could use a female hand on this.”

What kind of errand does Hosea have that requires a woman’s hand? 

Florence helps Pearson with the breakfast stew, adding her own little touch in the spices. “This is good,” Bill says loudly, slurping from his bowl.

“Did you grow up in a barn?” Tilly scolds, taking spoonfuls slowly. Bill says nothing to her, only continues to slurp it up and burp loudly as the bowl is empty. “Oh Bill…”

He shoots her a grin. “You know you like it, Tilly.”

“Away from the table with you,” Miss Grimshaw growls, pushing him from the seat which she takes herself.

Florence laughs, sitting next to Arthur in the grass. This is everyday for him, Bill being the butt end of someone’s joke. It doesn’t seem Bill minds it like Uncle minds it. Bill is a drunk and is used to being the joke to everyone, to Arthur, it seems he does it on purpose at times.

He loves his strange, violent family. And he’s glad Florence is able to stay. 

Breakfast goes by without another hitch and Hosea approaches them both with a wide smile. “It seems Miss Grimshaw has given our patient the okay to leave the camp.” Florence jumps into the air and hugs Hosea tightly.

“Oh thank you, thank you! I’m so tired of being here. Let’s go!” She grabs both of the men’s jackets, pushing them towards the horses as she goes and fetches her own.

Arthur stares at her retreating back, a soft smile along his lips. “Is there something I should know about the two of you? Way I heard it, you were cuddled in the morning light.” Damn Karen and her big mouth.

“Please don’t say anything to her. I’m not sure if she’s ready to… acknowledge my emotions for her. And I’m not sure if I’m ready to acknowledge them either.” It’s a downright lie. He brought her back presents in hopes of softening her up to the idea of them. But after this morning, after she lied to him about the way they slept, he’s unsure of where she stands romantically.

Hosea nods, soberly looking at him. “I would never.”

Just in time to have the conversation dropped, Florence bounces back up to them, her hair pulled back into a braid and the hat he picked out for her on her head. The three of them take their time saddling up the horses, easy conversation rolling over the backs until it’s time to go. Hosea leads them out to Emerald Ranch.

“It’s a beautiful country,” Florence says quietly. Arthur prefers the shade and secrets of the tree, but can understand why someone would love the open fields of the desert. He nods, not sure of what to say to her.

The ride is easy, no gunshots or O’Driscolls interrupting them as they ride into Emerald Ranch. “Now listen, before we go in, there are a few things you need to know about this.” Hosea stops them short outside of the ranch.

“The man we’re about to go see is as skittish as a mare with a newborn foal. So we have to be quick and precise about this.” Hosea’s eyes go to Arthur.

“What?”

“You know what. Keep your mouth shut.”

*

“Seamus, this here is Florence and Arthur,” Hosea says. Florence keeps her distance, not liking the look of the old man. “He’ll be our partner if he likes us.”

Seamus sighs and gets up, pacing. “It’s not a matter of liking, Hosea. It’s a matter of trust. Can I trust ya’ll?”

“This is the clown you want us to sell to?” Arthur points to Seamus. Florence grabs his arm to shut him up, but it seems he wants to flap his mouth.

“Will you keep your voice down?” Seamus growls, looking at Hosea like he can’t believe Arthur just said that. “This is just a sideline and I don’t have to sell to asses. Good day Hosea. Good luck with your business dealings.”

Hosea waves at Florence to take Arthur further back. “He’s ready and quick with his tongue-”

Florence drags Arthur back over to the horses hitched to a fence near a corral full of sheep. She leans against it, looking at him. “What has gotten into you?”

Arthur paces in front of her, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. We shouldn’t have to prove to that *clown* we’re good enough to sell to him.”

Florence remains quiet, unsure of how to calm him down. She puts her hands on her belt and kicks her leg back against the fence she’s leaning on. Emerald Ranch is a quaint little area, once possibly a town or a hub of some sort. There’s a closed saloon, houses crammed together as well as the large barn to her right.

Hosea comes back up to them, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. “You should learn when to hold your tongue, boy,” he says.

Arthur furrows his brow at Hosea. “Usually you require me to play it rough.”

“And I told you this guy is as skittish as mare with a foal. Either way, I was able to get us a way to prove our trustworthiness. Let’s get going and I’ll explain on the way.”

“We’re going to Carmody Dell to steal from his cousin by marriage. But no killing. No killing whatsoever.” -

“Why am I here again, Hosea? I don’t have experience in stealing.” Florence kicks Chance into a trot to catch up with the men. They ride in a row, taking up most of the road. As people on horses and in wages have to work their way around the three, they get glared at. Florence sighs, looking down at her hands.

“I thought bringing a woman would soften Seamus up, but it doesn’t seem like he trusts anyone.” He gives her a smile.

“That’s because he’s a joke,” Arthur chimes in, leaning over Lemon’s neck to look at Hosea. “Are we going to take this job seriously?”

“Think about it Arthur. He’s perfect. He won’t cause us any trouble and will give us easy money for stagecoaches and wagons.”

Florence’s stomach sickens at the thought of all this stealing. This is what they do. They don’t hurt innocent bystanders. As far as she knows, Arthur doesn’t kill unless given a reason to. That’s what he’s proven to her at least. 

“No killing though.” Hosea repeats this several times as if having to convince Arthur. 

“I’m still confused on how I come into all of this.”

“You can distract them while we sneak in and get things settled and pull out the stagecoach.”

Arthur pulls ahead, shaking his head. “No. She can help with the stealing. You or I can distract.”

“Are you really playing knight-in-shining-armor right now?” Florence growls. 

“These men can be dangerous. You don’t know what you’re getting into.” She sets her jaw, working her teeth together as she thinks of her next words carefully.

Fuck being careful around him. “I can take care of myself, thank you. You said it yourself. I have to learn to be on my own. You’ll be there in case something goes wrong.” She sits up straight, staring him in the eyes, waiting for him to argue with her. 

The tension in the air is thick as they ride in silence. She falls back behind the group, allowing herself a moment to breathe and work through the emotions. How can he tell her to protect herself and still try and protect her? It’s not like she’s practicing killing.

They stop short of the ranch, watching as two men work on unsaddling horses. “One of them is Bob Crawford,” Hosea says, putting a stick in his mouth. He points to the big barn. “That’s probably where they’re keeping it.”

Florence shakes off her nerves, noticing how her hands tremor slightly. This has to work or she’ll never hear the end of it from Arthur or his constant worrying.

She gets on Chance, a plan forming in her head. “Smack him,” she says to Arthur after putting him in the middle of the road. Arthur lets out a yell and smacks the shire on the ass. Chance rears up and it’s all she can do to hold on as he thunders through the farm, startling both men. “He-help!” she screams, holding onto dear life. He, luckily, jumps the fence on the other side of the house and barn.

The men mount their horses, galloping after her. “Pull on his reins!” one of them commands. She makes a half-hearted attempt, sitting up enough to pull down. Chance isn’t one to be stopped, but he isn’t the fastest horse either. They are overtaken easily and a man reaches out to grab Chance’s reins, turning his own horse in a tight circle to pull the shire to a stop.

“Oh dear. Oh God,” Florence says, shaking and stumbling from the saddle. She pukes in the grass on her hands and knees. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Are you alright, miss?” the man asks, dismounting from his horse. He’s fat and balding but his face is sweet enough looking.

“I… No.” She sits on her bottom, wiping her hand with the back of her mouth. “This damn horse nearly killed me for the third time today. I swear…”

How long does she need to keep them distracted? “Name’s Bob Crawford,” the balding man says. His associate doesn’t offer a name and Florence doesn’t ask. “Have you had him long?” He stands and looks over the shire.

“A few days, a week at most I think.” Florence stands as well, keeping her distance. She can’t shoot, but she can sure as hell threaten in case things go south.

They don’t. Bob is happy to look over the shire, to look for any uncomfortable spots that might be making the horse temperamental. Guilt blooms in her stomach as she scratches her head. These men steal as well and what Arthur and Hosea are stealing was already stolen. So why does she feel bad about distracting them?

“Thank you,” Florence says sincerely. “Thank you so much for looking over him.”

Bob nods, stepping back so she can mount. 

*

Where the hell is she? Arthur looks back, worry boiling in his stomach. He knew he shouldn’t have let her go on her own. She isn’t ready. She’ll never be ready. Florence would give you the shirt off your back if you told her you needed it. She’s too naive for this world, it’ll eat her right up.

Hosea takes over the reins, huffing at Arthur’s mother hen like behavior. “She has to fly the coop at some point, Arthur. No point in holding her hand.” He whips the reins against the horses and the carriage moves forward, creaking as it travels down the road.

“I know that,” he says gruffly.

“No you don’t. That’s why you’ve been looking behind us since we got the carriage out.” Damn him for being right. Arthur listens to the impulse to look behind him again, searching for Chance. 

“She wasn’t ready, Hosea. You should’ve left her at camp.”

It’s rare for Hosea to raise his voice and his anger is nearly non-existent at times. He’s usually go with the flow, trust what others do around him but when Arthur feels the tight grip of his mentor on his right arm, he knows he fucked up.

“Stop smothering her. She’s a big girl, Florence. She can deal with her own problems and get herself out of trouble. And if or when she can’t, we’ll come knocking down that door. But *until* then, let her live her life.”

Arthur runs a hand through his short hair, looking up at the cloudless sky. When did he become so obsessed and worried? He needs to take a moment back. Apparently the time he spent outside the camp while she was on bedrest wasn’t enough to separate his feelings for her.

“You’re right, Hosea. But you’re always right.” Hosea laughs, smiling and wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

“You just need to back off a little, Arthur. Let her breathe. If she’s going to be out of camp, then she needs to know how to find her own way. If she’s going to be an equal, treat her as one.”

The thumping of hooves announces someone in a hurry. Florence is standing slightly in the saddle, Chance huffing underneath her. “Is this it? Is this the stagecoach Saemus wanted?”

Hosea laughs loudly, pulling the stagecoach to a stop. Florence trots her horse around, stopping next to Arthur. “Well done. They never even noticed we were there.”

*

This is coming from Hosea. Florence looks at Arthur, wanting him to say something. Tell her she did a good job or what she could do better. He smiles at her briefly but says nothing about her distraction.

Oh.

Well, it’s not like she needs his approval for anything. Hosea offers up more than enough.

She follows them back behind the stagecoach, mulling over Arthur’s silence. It bothers her more than it should. She’s been asking to be let alone and to be allowed to do her own thing and now--now that it’s happening, she hates it. Florence pets Chance, breathing out slowly. This is all too confusing.

From his cuddles when they first camped underneath the stars to him holding her while she slept, she has no idea where she stands with him. Is it too soon after William’s death to go seeking the arms of another man? And if it is, does it matter? William wasn’t good to her for a good long while.

Emerald Ranch comes into the view on the horizon, surrounded by dust being kicked up by the ranch hands doing their activities for the day. Hosea leads the stagecoach to a large barn around the side of Emerald Ranch, hopping off and shaking hands with Seamus. “We got a deal?”

“That we do, Hosea. That we do.” Seamus looks around before closing the barn doors and happily patting the wood.

Hosea mounts his horse. “This old man needs some rest. Ya’ll enjoy yourselves.” He trots off towards the camp, leaving Florence and Arthur alone in the middle of the ranch.

“Look I-” Arthur scratches his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been a mother hen to ya. I’m just.. .worried.”

Worried is good. Maybe. It could imply liking her to not wanting her to fuck up because he brought her back into the camp against Dutch’s wishes. Florence nods. “I appreciate it.” Whatever it truly meant. 

“Do you want to go get something to drink?” 

Florence considers his question.

*

Giving him a resounding yes, they make a mostly silent ride to the saloon in Valentine. It’s the closest one. She’s quite the sight to the other men. When women walk into the bar in Valentine, it’s probably to whore themselves off. When she walks in, it’s obvious she means business with her spurs clinking and the gun at her hip. Arthur looks every man in the eye, standing up straighter to seem more intimidating. The last time he was in here, there was a bar fight he’d been part of.

Now they know not to fuck with him.

He orders two shots of whiskey, flipping the money onto the counter for it. “Here,” he says, getting Florence’s attention. She’s busy looking at women pressing themselves against men, breasts nearly hanging out of their dresses.

Florence takes it without looking, downing the shot in one solid go. Coughs bend her in half as she slams the glass down. “What the hell did you give me?”

“Whiskey! What did you think it was?” Arthur tries not to laugh, but her face says it all. Disgust.

“Water.” She sits in the stool, placing her forehead against the wood. “Jesus, Arthur. Next time warn me.”

“Who says there’ll be a next time?”

Florence whips her head to look at him, steadying herself on the counter. “Is that a challenge, Mr. Morgan?”

“I don’t know Florence. Care to attempt to drink me under the table?” She’d be stupid to say yes.

Florence must be feeling brave after her successful distraction. She sits on the stool, staring at him, her teeth on her lip. _Stop staring at her lips._

“Alright. I’ll take you up on your challenge.”

A crowd begins to cluster around them, forming a semi-circle. Arthur orders a full bottle of whiskey, throwing down money and placing her shot glass in front of her. “First to fall loses.” They both sit on stools without backs.

Men cheer for Arthur, clapping him on the back, telling him he’s got this. A few stray women yell out encouraging things to Florence. 

One. Two. Three shots go down without so much as a burn. He could live off of this stuff if he so chose. Florence lets out an unlady-like burp, swaying in the chair. “Want to stop?”

She shakes her head no. Either she’s never had alcohol or she’s had so little, she hasn’t built up a tolerance. He’s never seen such a lightweight.

Four. Five. Six. It boils uneasily in his empty stomach, making his head spin for a moment. Florence is worse off, eyelids drooping, her speech slurred. “Kepth it goin’,” she says, waving a hand at him.

Seven. Eight. Arthur feels it affecting his aim with the whiskey bottle on the ninth shot. Florence slides out of her chair, hitting the ground with a thud. She’s instantly up. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” Arthur laughs loudly and long, bent over like it’s the funniest shit in the world.

The crowd has grown tired of watching the two and dispersed a long while ago. Why hadn’t he noticed? Frowning, Arthur stands, the world swimming at his feet.

“Could someone stop this… saloon?” Florence tries to get up again, stumbling over her legs like a newborn foal. He helps her as well as he can, knowing they’re both not in a state to ride back into camp. The sun is in the process of setting, gold and red rays striking the sky and what little clouds remain.

Across the street is the hotel and they crash through the door. “Oh sir, no more problems, please,” the host says. For a quick sobering second, he’s reminded what happened. He puts more money down than necessary.

“Room.”

The host gives him a key to a room upstairs without a word. Getting Florence up the stairs is like holding onto soap with his hands wet. She slides out of his grip, giggling and tripping over the steps. “Florence. We need to go to bed,” he says.

Florence giggles louder earning a shout from within telling her to shut the fuck up. He finally gets them to their room, shutting and locking the door behind him. It’s a single bed, because of course it is.

Florence is against him instantly, her hands in his hair. “Arthur,” she breathes, whiskey spreading across his face and trapping itself in his nostrils. “Arthur, I like you. I shouldn’t but I do.” She kisses his cheek and his body responds, hands gripping her to hold her steady as she showers him with affection.

“No, Florence,” he mutters. “No. You’re drunk.”

“I’m not. I’m not, Arthur. I know what I want and it’s you.” He didn’t know how much he needed to hear her say those words. Gathering her arms, he leads her to the bed, taking off her boots and gun holster and laying her down.

“Good night, Florence.” Nothing like rejecting a woman you like to sober you up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos on this story! It's grown bigger than I could ever hope for and the community here is amazing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience as I get another chapter out. Work has taken up most of my time and I've only found a few moments to write here and there.
> 
> This chapter is completely unedited and I am still looking for a beta if anyone is interested in helping with the final rewrite.

And keep you awake. Arthur sits in the chair across from the bed, head in his hands.  _ She wants him?  _ What he needs is a shot and he’s not talking alcohol. The woman just lost her own husband she needs the man who killed him. Why hadn’t he seen this coming before? He’d been so lost in his own selfishness… This could hurt her. Worse, she may not even like him but the idea of him being nice to her.

He stands, pacing the room as quietly as he can. Part of him wants to leave her here, slightly convincing himself that she’s better off without him in her life. But he won’t. It’s not safe with William’s gang about or the men in Valentine. He’ll need to back off… Put some distance between the two of them.

*

Morning comes with pain and sickness. It’s worse than her shot wound. Florence’s eyes flutter open against the sun, clamping shut when it explodes across the front of her head with fire. She puts a hand to her forehead as if to put out the fire, but the pressure only adds to the throbbing pain. “Oh Jesus,” she mutters, rolling over to the right limply. How does Arthur deal with hangovers like this? Why did she drink so much?

It started out a… competition. He challenged her to drink him under the table and obviously that’s  _not_   what happened.

Puke slithers up her throat, pushing against her mouth. Shooting off the bed, she finds a bucket and retches. Is she waking up Arthur? Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him in the room, but her eyes had only been open for a few seconds. Her meal from yesterday coats the inside of her mouth and she feels entirely too hot.

“How’s your first hangover?” Arthur asks, his voice piercing through the hazy pain. It’s like her heart beats with every word.

“Be quiet!” she hisses. She hasn’t lifted her head from the bucket and feels his arm nudge her away from it. Sitting up, she uses the side of the bed as back support and he gently puts a cup of something warm in her hand. Coffee. She curls around the cup, blowing on it gently.

“If my head will stop throbbing and I can keep my eyes open, maybe we can get some shooting practice in.” Florence takes a sip of the coffee. It’s bitter but it allows her to open her eyes some. A blurred bucket is the first thing she sees as her vision clears, she can also see Arthur’s boots. “How do you do this? Function after a hangover?”

Arthur laughs quietly. “Practice.”

She drinks more of the coffee, willingly scalding her tongue so she can be more alert. It helps edge off the sick feeling in her stomach but her headache is still strong as ever.

“As for shooting practice, it’ll have to be another day. I got to do some hunting today. Pearson told me we were running low on meat.” Florence turns her head to him, blinking against the sunlight. It *hurts* to look up at him with the sun right there, but she has to show him she can run with the boys.

“Oh well, I could-”

“You’ll only slow me down.”

“Maybe I could-”

“Florence.” Her name is a whisper but it fills the room, threatening to break the walls. “You’re going back to camp.”

Florence wants to fight him on it, but he might be right. She’s in no condition to be any help of his. All she wants is a cool, shaded area she can fall asleep in. “Alright.” 

It takes one more cup of coffee to get her onto her feet and out the door. They pass the owner who audibly gives a sigh of relief as he realizes Arthur didn’t cause any trouble. Both Chance and Lemon are brought back from the stables, neighing. 

“Shh, Chance. Shh…” The shire doesn’t care. He nudges Florence in the stomach, licking his lips. She laughs, taking a moment to put their foreheads together and enjoy the feel of the powerful horse under her hands. “I’m okay. See? One piece.” He tosses his head, taking it from her hands and stomps. *Yeah, I’m ready to go too.*

Climbing in the saddle is embarrassingly hard. She feels Arthur’s hands help her in, gripping her firmly around the waist to hoist her up. “Thanks.”

Without a word, he mounts Lemon and leads the way back to the camp. Her attempts at conversation is completely ignored by Arthur. Did she say or do something last night that has him ignoring her? Or angered him? Try as she might, she can’t seem to remember the night before. Only the competition and even that is just blurs of accepting and drinking the first shot. What did she do? *What did she do?*

They come to the dead trees marking the entrance of the camp. “Go on,” is all he says. Florence directs Chance onto the path, looking over her shoulder to watch him as he’s staring at her like he wants to say something. “Who’s there?” Javier’s voice rings out.

“Me. It’s me,” Florence says weakly.

She unsaddles Chance, running a brush over his fur as she gets lost in her thoughts. Like fog, it traps her for some time, sending her in circles when she finally believes she found the answer.

Why is Arthur acting like this? Is this about last night or some other night she wasn’t aware of? Her own emotions for the man are muddled and she can recognize that *maybe* some of it is because he rescued her from William killing her.

And maybe she should be scared of him, but she spent the last couple of years scared of men. She won’t bow her head anymore than needed. So what went wrong?

“Miss Florence,” Miss Grimshaw yells, approaching her. “Good to have you back in camp. Maybe you can carry your weight around here and help me with the laundry.”

“Miss Grimshaw, please not so loud,” Florence begs, pulling up her shoulders as if to protect her ears against the loud voice.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Am I speaking too quietly for you? Laundry, dear girl. Now.” Miss Grimshaw shoots a tight smile and turns on her heel, yelling something at Tilly.

Karen laughs, holding a basket of laundry in her arms. “Laundry isn’t actually all that bad. We get to go down to the river. Chaperoned of course, but I managed to wrangle Lenny into it.” The three of them head down a steep path to a wide running river. Lenny sits on a rock, cleaning his gun while the woman sit on their knees at the bank.

“Are you having fun with Arthur outside of camp?” Karen asks. “We’re all mighty jealous you get to leave and don’t have to help with work. Especially Sadie.”

“I…”

“I’m not berating you for it, Florence.” Karen easily smiles. The woman is an enigma. One moment she’s all smiles and giggles and the other, she’s too serious. Florence can’t get a hold on her personality.  

Florence shakes her head, closing her eyes as the cold water wakes her body.”I am having fun, but he just dumped here and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Oh probably nothing. I heard Micah got himself arrested up in Strawberry and Dutch wanted Arthur to stage a rescue.” Micah? That’s one member she hasn’t met of Dutch’s gang. What has he gotten himself arrested for? Not paying a prostitute?

“He could probably use the help,” Florence says, looking over her shoulder at the steep hill top where the camp sits. If your eyes adjust right, you can see a thin gray smoke line coming from those treetops in particular. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to stay behind. Regale us with stories of everything you’ve seen outside.” Karen’s blonde hair falls into her face and she blows at a strand, giving Florence a smile.

Florence nods, slightly distracted by the idea of Arthur alone out there. He’s a capable man, but to just sit here and do laundry, that’s not been her life for the last several days. 

The two of them wash the laundry in peace, only the babbling of the river and Lenny’s slow breathing behind them are the sounds in the air. Florence stands up straight, bones popping back into place. Chores are far worse than sitting horseback for eight hours.

“How does Miss Grimshaw do this without complaining?” she whines, massaging her neck. Karen stands and grins at her, flicking the water at Florence.

“She doesn’t. She’ll just complain about _us_  rather than the work.”

Florence flinches when the water lands on her, adding to the already cold air around them. She puts a hand to her forehead, blocking the sun out for a few blissful moments. Something swaying in the wind catches her eye across the river.

“Karen, do you see that?” Florence points to the other side of the bank with her free hand.

“Hm?” Karen copies Florence’s stance, hand over her forehead and squints at the line of trees. “Yeah, probably just some fabric.”

But it isn’t. The way it flutters as if connected to something heavy. But she can’t see a branch where it’s fluttering. Maybe it’s nothing, but she has to know. She drops the clothing onto the rocky bank and wades through the water, careful to keep her footing as an undercurrent wraps around her ankles. “Florence!” Karen’s shout appears to have woken Lenny who is also shouting at her.

A stone sits heavily in her stomach as her mind tries to make sense of it. The fabric begins to take shape of a leg. A man hangs in the tree, arms spread and tied with rope. His body is headless and the torso is ripped open, intestines dropping onto the ground like large, bloody snakes. 

Florence turns instantly around, finding a bush to bend into and puke, her head pounding from the stress her body is undergoing. “Flore-” Karen’s sentence is cut off. The woman draws her gun, the clicking of the hammer sliding back. “Come on,” she says quietly, putting an arm around Florence’s shoulders. Her skirts are soaked to the waist.

“You didn’t have to come after me,” Florence says, leaning into Karen.

“You can’t just run off like that, so yes I did.”

“Wh-what happened to him?”

Karen looks back and sighs. How is the woman holding her composure? “I don’t know, but this isn’t the time to wonder that. Let’s get back to camp.”

They make their way across the river, neither of them seeing the paper sticking out of the head on a high branch above the body.

*

When Arthur dropped Florence off at the camp, he asked Charles to come hunting with him. They aren’t hunting for animals, however, they are hunting to murder sites. He knows of the ones the sheriff has found and most of them are a good distance from the camps. He wants the ones near the camps, but there’s only one marked.

Twin Stack Pass.

“Why are we doing this? Doesn’t the sheriff in Valentine have it?” Charles questions as they kick their horses into a gallop.

Wind passes through Arthur’s ears, making it hard to answer Charles and nearly sending his hat flying off of his head. As the large rocks on either side of the path come into view, the wind picks up, sending leaves scuttling across the dirt. “This gang, whoever they are, is after Florence. I plan to stop them.”

“You must like this girl,” Charles says idly as they slow down the horses and pull them off to the right off the path. Lemon instantly puts his head down and starts to pull at the grass.

“Everyone keeps saying that.” Arthur grunts, looking up at the cloudy sky. 

“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Arthur says nothing, going on foot to look for the marked site. It’s not hard to find it as it’s clearly protected by a lawman laying down, cleaning his gun. He is quick to stand, fumbling with his second gun.

“Whoa, Sheriff Joseph sent me to check out the sites. I found one back in a house a while back and…”

The lawman narrows his eyes at Arthur. “Joseph in Valentine?”

“Yes, sir.”

The lawman plops back down onto his bedroll and waves towards the large rock. “It’s up a ways.”

The body is suspended with rope nailed to the rock face. The head is missing and this one is flayed, red muscles shining sickly in the weak light. The torso has one long cut down the middle, displaying ribs and his intestines. Even with the lawman so near, it’s obvious wildlife has taken a bite out of the man’s legs and feet.

“How long has the corpse been here?” Arthur asks Charles.

Charles is already bent, inspecting the ground. “A few days at least. Animals have been through. Coyotes, foxes, vultures.” He points to the foot marks. “There’s been many men here as well. This poor fucker didn’t die here.”

Arthur looks closely at the body, for a message or something that sticks out. He spots the white tip of paper sticking out of the man’s pocket. He’s careful not to get any blood on him as he reaches for it. 

*The world thrives on chaos.* What flowery scripting. Arthur crumbles the paper, tossing it over his shoulder. It seems this one isn’t connected to Florence, which was a blessing. Sighing, he turns from the body, removing his hat. A fat raindrop hits him, causing him to look up. “Let’s head back.”

Arthur thanks the lawman, only getting a grunt in return. He mounts Lemon, kicking him into a trot and leading him onto the path towards the amp.

The air is thick with storm. Rain begins to intensify, soaking them. Arthur’s clothes stick to him uncomfortably, his hat dripping water onto his hands. It seems like the ride is taking forever as he allows Lemon to take him back, the plains blurring past as the horse settles into a gallop.

There isn’t anyone out in the middle of the camp as they walk in. Everyone’s huddled beneath their respective tents. Arthur finds Florence asleep, bundled up with blankets and curled into a tiny ball. He stands there, wanting to crawl into the blankets with her, but pushes away the urge as he strips off the soaked clothing, trusting nobody is peeking in on him. “Arthur?” Florence’s voice comes from under her mountain of fabric. Hurriedly he slips on some pants, wincing in pain as it hits him too hard in the center.

She moves the blanket, blinking at him. :Were you successful in your hunt?”

Guilt tears through him but he keeps it at bay. “No,” he replies quietly, scratching his chest.

“Arthur.” Dutch’s voice rings out across the camp, summoning him. He gives Florence a small smile, slips on a shirt and promptly turns around into the rain. 

He nods to Miss O’Shea who is bundled up much like Florence. “We found a body near camp.” Dutch laces his fingers together, sitting on the edge of his cushioned cot. “Is there something you want to tell me about?”

Arthur’s suddenly very sick. It sits in his stomach and travels up his spine in short shivers. It’s rare for him to never _tell_ Dutch things and it had honestly slipped his mind. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s worried Dutch will kick Florence out like he had before. They know the gang is after her, but the bodies are a sure sign that she’s being targeted. He looks past Dutch, feeling much like a child being scolded for eating an extra cookie. “Uncle tell you?”

Dutch sighs, drawing Arthur’s eyes. “Do you trust me? Do you trust my judgement?”

“I-” Arthur steps further into the tent to keep the water from further dripping down his back. “You kicked Florence out. I didn’t-”

“Arthur, I made a mistake. But that’s in the past and *will* not happen again.” Dutch puts a hand on Miss O’Shea’s waist, his thump working in lazy circles. “I sent Javier down to look at the body. Florence found it.”

Arthur tenses, looking past Dutch once again towards a path leading out of camp. “She found it?”

“She was pretty shaken up.”

“What did Javier find?”

“A message in the mouth of the head.”

He doesn’t need to ask what it says. Dutch hands him the note. *We found her.* What is this gang’s obsession with Florence? Why focus on her? He considers burning it, as if erasing it from existence will stop them from coming.

“Do you plan on telling her?” Dutch asks, breaking his thoughts.

Arthur hands him back the note. “No. No. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Arthur, you can’t keep this from her forever. These bodies… They are linked to her. This gang wants her.”

“And that much she knows, Dutch. We know she knows, but if I tell her they’re killing people to leave messages for us, then she’ll leave.” Florence is the kind of person to put other people first. “I…” He has no idea what the hell he’s going to do. For fuck’s sake, it’s not like they can pick up camp and move.

“I know of a cabin not far from Strawberry. Now Micah is stuck up there as well from what I’ve heard. If you can take her up there with you to the cabin, you could break Micah out of jail.” Dutch folds out a map, marking the cabin. 

“What the hell did he do now?” Arthur crosses his arm and leans against the support beam of the tent.

“I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. Could you, please?”

Arthur takes the map, folding it and putting it in his back pocket. “Only for you Dutch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and all the kind comments I've been getting of late. It really helps with the continuation of this story.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Abuse
> 
> I am sorry it took so long for this chapter to be up. I don't know when nine is going to be up, but I already have an idea in the works for it and I love the continued support. I am also working on a plotless smut fic with Arthur and Florence for all ya'll lovely people for Christmas and hope to have that up soonish. I have many gifts to make, plus a gift-fic. The month of December is always rough for writers, huh?

Florence stirs as Arthur comes back to the tent, cursing at the rain. She peeks through her lashes to see him hunched over, shaking out the front of his shirt before kicking off his boots somewhere to the corner and getting into his cot, wrapping his sheepskin jacket around him. Why isn’t he taking his blanket? She pulls off the blanket she stole from him when the storm set in and tosses it over him. Without a word, he wraps himself tightly in it. Briefly before sleep takes over, she wonders if she did anything wrong. 

The headless man haunts her. He swings his intestines like a lasso, wrapping the meat around her neck and tightens it. It instantly morphs into William with the gunshot still fresh in the middle of his forehead. “You let him kill me,” he growls, spittle landing in her face. “ _ I’ll kill you bitch! They’re coming for you and when they do, they will skin you alive slowly while I listen to you scream.”  _ She coughs as oxygen is being restricted from entering her body and her hands uselessly claw at his. “ _ See you in hell. _ ”

Florence shoots up or tries to, contained by something strong. Nightmare still rattling around in her head, she fights the constraint, lashing out and successfully hitting something fleshy. “Flo-” Arthur breath comes out sharply as her elbow connected with his stomach.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” She twists in his arms, inches away. Holding her breath, she waits for his next move, praying he’ll just kiss her. If he kisses her, she’ll know if her feelings for him is real right? She’ll know what she’s feeling isn’t just an effect of being saved by him. He pulls back, rubbing his stomach.

“You’re fine. Good to see some fight in you.” Cold air rushes in by the absence of his body and she snuggles in further into the blanket, watching him.

“Come on, we have a long day ahead of us.” Immediately he begins to pack as if they are preparing for a long journey. Without questioning any of it, cause she won’t question any length of time with him, she leaves the warm bed and hopes into her stiffened boots and throws on another shirt. Fog hangs low in the camp, obscuring other tents and people’s movements.

Florence watches him pack more and more stuff. His shaving kit. Their clothes. Lots of ammo. The longer this drags on and she’s just left in silence on the edge of her cot, the more she wants to question it. Why is he packing so much? Has Dutch decided she isn’t worth the trouble? Is he going to off her somewhere?

“So,” she says breaking the long silence as her curiosity grows stronger, “where are we going?”

*

Not telling her is almost as bad as telling her. He doesn’t plan on telling her about the message in the body until they are well away from camp in case she decides to run, he can easily track her. The longer he avoids her questions and curiosity, the more annoyed she becomes. The sun picks a path through the sky, chasing off the remaining fog and adding a warmth to the air that wasn’t there before.

Arthur goes through his checklist in his mind. He’s visited Pearson and took only the food the camp could afford to lose, though he knows when they come back, he’ll have to hunt doubly as hard to make up for lost time.They have saddlebags full to the brim with shit. Ammo, clothes, his shaving kit, canned food, blankets, an extra pistol hidden in a pair of socks just in case. He’ll have to hunt while they are at the cabin.

And feed three if rescuing Micah goes as smoothly as he hopes it will.

“Arthur,” she growls, grabbing his arm rightly to stop him. “Answer me damnit.” He gives her a smile that screams tolerance with her questions being barely kept.

“Stop asking. I’ll explain everything on the road,” Arthur snaps, wrenching his arm out of her grasp. They should’ve left twenty minutes ago when the fog began to clear, but he wanted to make sure everything was in the bags. If they leave and forget something, there’s no coming back.

Florence glares at him, biting her lip hard. He sighs, an apology on his tongue, however, there’s no time to start playing nice. Turning on his heel, he carries the necessary items to the horses, burdening them until it’s stacked up high on the back. Lemon paws at the ground and Arthur pats him. “I know boy. I know.” It won’t be for long. Strawberry is a few hours ride and when they get to the cabin, he can take everything off. “I’m sorry.” 

Florence has found Karen, the women in deep conversation, foreheads pressed together. They’ve become inseparable and he smiles slightly. Though he worries the kind of influence Karen might have on Florence. Sometimes the blonde she-devil takes things a step too far and if Florence were to learn from that…

As if she’s a child.

“Florence,” he calls gruffly.

She holds up a finger. “Do you know where you’re going?” Dutch asks, coming up to him and blowing smoke into Arthur’s face.

“Yep. Cabin near Strawberry.”

“Don’t forget about Micah.” Dutch looks at him hard for a moment before turning to watch the women.

Arthur grumbles under his breath. He honestly doesn’t know what Dutch sees in Micah. He’s only been running with them a few months and has proved to be more of a hassle than a help. His trigger finger is so sensitive, Arthur almost expects a shot in the back if he shoots Micah the wrong look. “Yeah… yeah.” Florence hugs Karen tightly, a smile brightening her green eyes.

“Ready when you are,” she says shortly, her smiling falling as she apporaches him. He’ll have to apologize if the ride is going to be peaceful. They mouth their horses and ride out of camp, the sun risen far too high for Arthur’s liking.

“Florence.”

“Arthur.”

He nearly laughs. “I’m sorry for snapping.” Florence keeps her eyes straight but he can see the tension in her shoulders leak out. “I…” He pulls Lemon to a stop, looking around as if someone from William’s gang is following him. “I’m trying to protect you, okay?”

“Protect me from what? Rogue O’Driscolls?”

Arthur has to let the question sit for a moment or he’ll say something he regrets. He takes off his hat, immediately feeling the weak sun on his head and runs a hand through his hair, releasing a groan of frustration. “Sometimes Florence, you can be as thick as a fucking tree,” he says breaking the silence. He continues before she can get a word in, “The man shooting at you outside your home, his gang is after you because of William’s death.”

Florence sighs, kicking Chance into moving and he has no choice but to follow her. At least she’s going to the right way. “Why? I didn’t pull the trigger.”

“That is a very good question and I have my suspicions, I have no true answer for you.” Arthur catches up to her, their horses side by side. “I suspect he thinks Dutch will easily give you up and give the gang hell for taking or killing me.” She glances at him, her face strangely composed and empty of emotion. “I’m not going to let them take you. We’re going to a safe house outside of Strawberry.”

He rubs the scruff on his face. He doesn’t trust Micah not to say or do something stupid to Florence and he knows Micah’s gonna want to come to the house for a decent meal and a night’s sleep. 

The hours drag on as they kick the horses into a slow trot and the sun moves higher in the sky, becoming obscured by gray clouds. “We should be there soon,” Arthur announces as the first drop of rain hits his shoulder. Florence bends her head down, nodding. She’s been quiet the entire trip, not speaking a word after he told her his plans. 

Rain falls in sheets while thunder dances across the sky, sending poor Lemon into a frightened dance. “Whoa boy. We’re almost there.” Arthur pulls at the reins, rubbing the palomino’s neck. Soaked and cold to the bone, Arthur kicks Lemon into a gallop as the curve of the road gives way to a field. There among the weeds and sparse trees stands a decrypt house, broken down over time and weather patterns.

He dismounts, grabbing everything he can, sprinting into the house and coming back out to find Florence leading the horses to a small shelter off to the right and unsaddling them. He gathers the rest of their items, lighting a lantern when he gets inside the house.

It’s a small one-bedroom, the door to the bedroom is locked, the key long gone from a previous life. “We’ll be safe here,” he says, taking off his jacket and shirt and wrapping a blanket around his torso to get dry. He hands her clothing and turns so she can change.

“Are you sure, Arthur? Are you sure we’ll be safe here? Why are ya’ll risking your lives to save me?” He turns, surprised by the anger and shakiness in her voice. She’s dressed in a long sleeve shirt that does nothing to hide her curves from him.

“Really Florence? You’ve become part of the gang. You are family now.” 

Florence seems to focus on unpacking the bags, putting the food away in the cupboards like a proper housewife and he sits back in the chair to allow her to do her thing. “Look, I know you didn’t shoot the gun, but you also didn’t choose for him to die either. If there is anyone who is going to get ‘punished’ in a way, it should be me, not you.”

Florence whips on him, holding a can in her hand like a weapon. For a brief moment, he thinks she’s going to hit him outside the head. “You will not be  _ punished  _ for rescuing me.”

*

Arthur gets up, dropping the blanket, leaving his bare chest on display as he grabs the can gently from her hand and puts it down on the table next to them. “You aren’t going to die either. We’ll protect you, Florence,” he says, putting his hands on her shoulders, blue-green eyes looking down into hers.  _ Kiss me, damnit.  _ He squeezes and pulls back, looking down at the fireplace. 

“We’re both wet and cold, how about a fire? I thought I saw some logs out back that would work if not too wet.” Florence sits on the extra cot, legs folded beneath her as she watches him build the fire.

This could be it. This could finally push her into making that move. “Arthur-”

Arthur stops what he’s doing and turns to look at her. The words sit like weights on her tongue and instead she asks, “Why are you going through all this trouble to protect me?”

Arthur grunts, flicking a match into the kindling and successfully starting a fire that builds in heat. Florence moves closer to it, putting a horse blanket pulled from Chance on the floor and sitting on the top. They sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing the warmth of the fire, her head nestled into the curve of his neck.  _ Now. Do it now. _

“Arthur, I like you.”

Arthur chuckles. “I like you as well, Florence. You’re a good person.”

“No, Arthur. Not like that. Not as a friend. More. I like you more than a friend.” She holds her breath, biting her lip as the silence drags on and on.

“You aren’t well in the head after I killed your husband,” he says quietly, not moving from their bodies pressed together. “You’ve latched onto me because I rescued you-”

“Are you really suggesting I only like you because you took me from an abusive situation?” Florence’s brow knits together and she pushes away from him, sitting on her knees to look at him. He avoids her eyes, staring into the fire. “I’m falling in love with you, I am.” It feels like she has to convince him and maybe a tiny part of herself, her feelings for the man in front of her. “Arthur, please say something.” His silence says everything but she wants him to speak. To say something against what she just told him.

“No, Florence. You aren’t falling in love with me. I’m a broken man, a crook, a murderer.”

“Arthur Morgan, you are none of those things.”

“Florence, I am,” he growls, his hands clenched into fists down by his thighs.

“Arthur, please. I-” She puts her hand on his shoulder.

“No. No, I can’t. You can’t.” He shrugs off her hand and gives her a look of pleading. “Florence, you have to understand what you are feeling isn’t healthy. It’s not healthy to-”

“I will decide what is healthy and what isn’t healthy, thank you. I know how I feel about you in my heart.” She pokes her chest in the center hard enough to create brief pain. “You aren’t the one who is understanding.”

He stands, huffing. “I understand enough about life. I’ve seen enough relationships die.”

*

She’s no different than Dutch latching onto Molly O’Shea after losing Annabelle. It’s a way to fill that missing hole, even if that hole is created by an abusive ass. Arthur wants to kiss her, erase his words lingering in the air, but he can’t bring himself to take advantage of this. Even if  _ he  _ is falling hard for her, she can’t be feeling the same thing and having it be real. “Did Dutch ever tell you about Annabelle?”

Florence’s eyes mist with tears and she silently shakes her head. “Colm O’Driscoll shot her. Killed her in cold blood because Dutch killed his brother. It’s a feud that stretches back years, but he latched onto Miss O’Shea. Molly. I believe to fill that hole.”

“Arthur, they’re happy together. She loves him just like he loves-”

Arthur shakes his head. “He doesn’t love her. He loves the idea of her.” He’s heard the way Dutch speaks of Molly like she’s some replaceable thing. Like she’s something to be kept on the shelf and not a woman with emotions and ambitions of her own.

Fuck, has it even been long enough after Mary for him to be feeling this way? Have the years stretched out accordingly so he can fall in love again without the shame of what Mary’s daddy said hanging over his head. Florence stands, they almost being eye-level with each other. She puts a hand on his cheek. “Why do you deny me? Don’t you feel the same? I’ve woken up to you against me, holding me.”

“You have nightmares and could wake others.”

“You could’ve easily woken me from those nightmares but instead you chose comfort. Why Arthur Morgan, why?”

He has no answer, anchored to the spot by her hand and her proximity. Shadows dance across her face, lighting her forest green eyes. “Florence,” he says, her name a whisper on his lips before leaning in and kissing her softly at first. Their lips brush against each other and tingles shock through his body. 

It becomes clear this has needed to happen for a while and they clutch at each other like lost souls at sea, drowning in a world that wants neither of them. Lips crash into one another, tongues seeking each other in the dance of frenzied want. He needs to stop this, not encourage this behavior further, but something about her. His hands edge her shirt, feeling soft skin of her stomach underneath. “Arthur,” she breathes when they break apart, both panting as time stands still.

There is a growing discomfort in his pants and he pulls back from Florence, her presence around him immediately missed. “I have-” He coughs. “I have to go scout Strawberry. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“In this rain, Arthur?”

He has to get out of the cabin, think through what he just did. What he gave into even though he said he wouldn’t. “Yeah… they won’t be expecting anyone to rescue Micah in this when it’s pissing like this.” He throws on his coat and grabs his rifle. He tosses one to Florence who catches it barely and spends a few minutes showing her how to load it, fire it and use it as a basic weapon if the bastard she’s shooting at gets too close. 

“Just be careful, please.” Florence takes a step towards him and he takes one back, hand searching blindly for the door. The sound of rain hitting the metal roof fills the small cabin as they just stare at each other and finally he finds the door handle.

“I will. Don’t worry about ol’ Arthur,” he says with a grimace. Why in the world would he say that? Cool air rushes at his back, water already misting and wetting his clothes. He takes as long as he dares to saddle Lemon, waiting for his member to calm down from the excitement in the cabin. 

“You dumbass,” he mutters to himself, putting his hat on his head and riding out into the rain, the cabin slowly disappearing into the sheet of rain and trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking through me and your continued support. I love every kudos and comment. Thank you so much for reading as well!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only been a few weeks, but I still feel really, really about making ya'll wait! Christmas caught up with me and I just couldn't find the energy to write. I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

_ A fool, Arthur Morgan. You are a damn fool.  _ A fool for kissing her, for allowing it to go as far as it had. For allowing her profession of love to light his world in a brief moment. He bends down, shielding himself from the torrential rain that threatens to drown him and Lemon. The walk to Strawberry is agonizingly slow, taking nearly thirty minutes from the safe cabin to the small sheriff’s office set right near the outside of town.

He knocks on the door, stomping his feet against the cold. Maybe he can convince the sheriff to give up Micah and there won’t be a need for bloodshed. A lawman opens the door with his rifle resting on his forearm. “I’ve come from Blackwater,” Arthur says, being beckoned inside. “I’m on the hunt of a dangerous gang. Calm O’Driscoll. Heard you might have one of his boys locked up here.”

“Perhaps. But you aren’t taking, sir. You can look at them when we hang them tomorrow night.” Arthur sighs, nodding his head and stepping back through the door. What a waste of time.

He begins to look around at the building, glad for the rain that hid his movements from the officers who may still be looking at him. He has some dynamite in the saddle bag on Lemon, he could blow…

“You’ll regret this!” Micah’s voice echoes from the left side. Arthur is careful in the mud as he slips down a small mud hill, nearly landing on his ass.

“Have fun, old friend?” Arthur asks causally. He’s never liked Micah, not from the moment he joined the gang. It’s almost tempting to tell Dutch it was too late, he couldn’t save Micah from the hanging.

“Shut it, Morgan. Are you going to get me out of here?”

Arthur laughs, grinning for a moment before turning on his foot and leaning against the slick building. The rain has lessened so he can properly see. “Why should I?” He turns his head, watching Micah out of the corner of his eye.

“You can’t just stand there and watch me swing,” Micah growls, pressing his face against the metal bars to get a better look at his possible savior.

“Why? I’ve nothing but shit from your mouth for the last six months and this is an opportunity to watch you hang.” Arthur walks away from the wall, inspecting the iron steam donkey. If he so chooses, he could hook the steam donkey on the bars and let Micah free. “Of course, there’s only one of me and a whole town full of people who want to watch you hang.”

Micah widens his eyes. “I’ve always looked up to you, Morgan. You’ve been like a big brother me. You know when I first--”

“Alright, stop your ass kissing,” Arthur grumbles, grabbing the large hook and bringing it over to the bars. He places it in the middle, making sure it’s snug before turning around and pulling the lever. It’s hard work, his hands slipping on the too cold metal until he finally gets a proper grip.

The steam donkey pulls at the metal cord easily, tightening until it breaks the brick wall apart. Arthur tosses Micah a gun, knowing they’ll have to fight their way out. It’s been too long since he’s left Florence and he begins to imagine scenarios of finding her dead or strung up or...worse.

Micah laughs, drawing more unnecessary drama to them by shooting the extra prisoner. “What the hell, Micah?”

“He was an O’Driscoll boy,” Micah responds as if it’s enough explanation for the shot to the head. And for the moment, it is. Arthur crouches behind a barrell, bullets flying all around them.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he says.

“Oh no you don’t, Morgan. They got something of mine and we’re getting it back.”

“Micah--I have a woman back at the safe cabin and she can’t hold her grou-”

“A woman, Morgan?” Micah asks, raising up to let off a couple of shots. Horses scream, filling the air with even more noise. “‘Bout time. I was worried you couldn’t get the little feller up.”

Arthur grits his teeth against each other, staring down the man. He could easily shoot Micah here and now. Dutch wouldn’t know the difference, he wouldn’t know what happened to the man, but he doesn’t. He pokes his head out from behind the barrell and lets off shot after shot, taking out more men in the single town than he has in a day.

The work is slow and gruesome, in hordes they came. Wave after wave under it seems the entire town lay at their feet. Micah approaches a house with a mission in the middle of town, yelling at a man to come out and face him. The man stumbles from the open door, gun in hand. Micah wastes no time shooting him, a high pitched laughter coming from his mouth as he does. 

A woman starts screaming while Micah is saying something unintelligible. Arthur rushes forward to stop him from shooting off his gun, but it’s too late. The window lights for a moment and her blood splatters across the glass. “Was that necessary Micah?” Arthur growls as Micah comes out with three guns. He tosses Arthur back his and holsters the other two.

“They had something of mine.” He pets the holsters in a sweet way, which is odd for Micah and looks wrong on him. The almost calm look on his loose face combined with a look of love Arthur wasn’t sure Micah could actually produce. “Now, Arthur, let’s go see about that woman of yours.”

Fuck. Arthur has no choice but to follow him. There’s no changing Micah’s mind when he’s set on a path and right now that path unfortunately leads straight to Florence. “You keep on your best manners,” Arthur says in a low tone as he nudges Lemon to catch up with Micah’s horse. 

Micah tips his head towards him. “Oh, yes sir. I’ll be the perfect example of a gentleman. Don’t you worry.” It’s the way his grin shines in the moonlight, a sickly white across his face. It speaks of things Arthur doesn't even want to know. There is little background on Micah when he joined the gang, Dutch just blindly letting him in and ignoring the bloodlust that is at least obvious.

“I mean it Micah.”

“Oh Morgan, don’t you get your head in a twist. I promised I’d be a gentlemen. Don’t you trust me?”

The answer is a resounding no, but Arthur says nothing. They gallop across the silver landscape, dark shapes coming up on either side of them until a mass becomes the forest and he slows, calling out in a sharp whistle. Flickering light plays against the floor as a door opens a tiny bit. “Arthur?” Florence calls out uncertainly.

There is no guarantee it’s him. It could’ve gotten her killed. Arthur dismounts, saying yes loudly. He unsaddles Lemon, putting it all in a drier part of the cover and grabs Micah by the arm. “I mean it, Bell, you even look at her wrong and you are out on your ass,” Arthur growls. Micah gives him the same sickeningly sweet smile. 

“Oh Morgan, I’ll be so sweet, you won’t know it’s me.” With a laugh, he pulls his arm from Arthur’s hand and heads to the light. “Oh, miss, I’ve heard so much of you.”

_ Bastard. _ Arthur is close behind, keeping his hand on his pistol. They enter the warm house and he’s surprised to see food laid out on the table. It’s a simple meal. No more than bread, jerky and cheese with some whiskey. “Where’d you get the whiskey?”

Florence smiles at him. “I found it in the bottom cupboard. Whoever used this house last left it here.”

“Who cares Morgan. Sit down and enjoy the meal your woman prepared,” Micah says, pulling out a chair and it scrapes across the floor, filling the suddenly tense air.

*

His woman? What did Arthur say to this loud man? She sits down as far as she can from Micah, watching him consume the food like he wasn’t fed in the prison. His lips smack together as he drinks noisily from the cup.

“Manners, Micah,” Arthur says around bread in his mouth.

“Oh Morgan, oh Morgan, shut up.” If anything, his eating has gotten more disgusting, dribble and food slowly making its way out of his mouth and into the sides of his handlebar mustache. 

Florence takes a piece of cheese for herself, too sick after watching Micah eat to consume more. “So, Florence, is it? Do you give him a good fucking?”

She chokes on the food going down her throat, using the whiskey to chase it down, though that’s not much better. It only makes the burning worse. “Excuse me?” What kind of question is that? And where does he get off thinking he can speak that way? Florence clenches her hands in her lap, staring off into the fireplace directly across from her.

“Come on Arthur, details. Does she?” he says after she refused to give an answer.

“Micah, shut the fuck up.”

“Oh Arthur, is she sloppy? Not let you finish? Or you too much of a pussy to even think-”

Arthur pushes back his chair, grabbing Micah by the back of the jacket. “That’s it, you asshole. I should’ve let you hang.” Micah fights, his fist colliding with Arthur’s cheek and it explodes into a full on brawl, the table being turned over nearly on Florence. She jumps back, grabbing the first thing she can think of.

“Knock it off!” she screams, interrupting them. Arthur has Micah by the hair and Micah has him by the throat. 

“Oh sweetpea, you don’t want to-”

“Shut up, Micah.” Florence swings the heavy gun at him. She’s sure she’s using it wrong, but the barrel points straight at his body. He glares at her. “I don’t like you implications of my relationship with Mr. Morgan. He has been nothing but a true gentlemen… doing nothing I wouldn’t want--” Or even want to do. “You will stop or I’ll shoot.”

“Crazy bitch,” Micah growls, letting Arthur go and pushing him back. Arthur must still be dazed by the punch as he goes down easily. Florence trips over a fallen chair, managing to keep the barrel pointed at him. “Have you taken a life, Florence?” He’s so close, the tip of the gun glazes across his shirt.

Then it’s pressed into his stomach. “Go on. Pull the trigger. Do it,” he screams, his grin wide. Florence puts her finger on the trigger, a hair away from the metal. “Do it! Do it!”

The gun drops with a thud and a silence louder than a gunshot fills the room. Florence looks at the mess in the cabin, overturned chairs and a table laying on its top. Food everywhere, whiskey seeping into the cracks on the floor. The fire is the only thing untouched and still quite beautiful. “That’s what I fucking thought.” Micah grabs the shotgun, aiming the barrel at her as he clicks it open. “It’s not even loaded.” He shoulders it and picks up the half emptied bottle of whiskey, bringing it to his lips and drinking the rest, streams pouring out of the corners of his mouth. 

“Ahhh, great meal Florence.” He steps out the door and for a heartbeat longer, Florence stares at the door as if it’ll open again.

Over the chairs of legs, Florence skids to a stop by Arthur, brushing his hair from his face. He stares up at the ceiling. “Arthur?”

“Scared him off did you?” he jokes, putting an elbow underneath him and sitting up slightly. 

Florence laughs, tears rolling down her cheeks. She wipes away the wetness, not expecting to start crying of all things. “Don’t you start. I thought he had… I don’t know what he did to you and then he pointed the gun at me… and I had it pointed at him and he screamed at me to--”

“Florence, breathe.” Arthur’s hand brushes her cheek and she leans into it as much as she can. Any contact between them is welcomed, especially after the kiss, she’s not sure where they stand romantically. If they even stand romantically.

Arthur gets up, groaning and holding his shoulder. “I took that fall hard.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine.” She helps him right the chairs and table, putting the food outside and cleaning up the whiskey with a rag. The smell of alcohol hangs in the air and she opens a window to chase it out.

“Arthur… why is he part of the gang?” Of all the people she’s met, Micah is the far worst Dutch puts up with. Bill has a mouth on him, that’s true, but he’s never come close to acting on the words he’s spouted off at her. 

“I don’t know what Dutch sees in him.” Arthur falls back into a chair and throws his head over the back. Florence sits in a chair across from him, rubbing her hand on the smooth wood of the table and sighs.

“Obviously the rescue went well.”

“Oh yeah, real smooth. About half the town lay dead at our feet. Micah has a sensitive trigger finger.”

“What? Arthur, how could-?”

“I didn’t have a choice, Florence! I was being shot at. It’s kill or be killed.” He lifts his head to look at her. “It’s the way of the world. The sooner you realize this, the better we’re all off.”

Florence doesn’t say anything, turning her eyes to the dying fire. “We need more wood,” she says quietly. She exits the cabin, letting out a shaky breath.  _ You absolute idiot. That kiss? A mistake. You and him? It’ll never work.  _ Not if he’s convinced she isn’t actually falling in love with him. 

“But I am and you are being stupid, Arthur Morgan.”

“Am I now?” She jumps, reaching for the missing gun at her side. “Whoa now, trigger fingers. We wouldn’t want someone to do something stupid, now would we?”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“And you are talking to yourself. How am I being stupid?”

Florence gathers her wits, breathing in deeply and exhaling. “You are telling  _ me  _ I can’t possible be in love with you. You are telling  _ me  _ what I am and am not feeling.” She gets into his face, glad her height gives her an advantage to look him in the eye. She pokes him hard, so angry, she can feel her face pinch together. “I am not some living doll you can just dictate around. I have emotions Arthur. I know what they mean and I am falling for you whether you like it or not.”

Arthur simply stares at her, his hazel green eyes searching her face for something. What? A lie. “I’m not lying if you think that’s what this is.”

“Oh, I know you’re not.” His hand tangles into her loose hair, bringing their lips together into a second kiss, though this one more desperate. Fat drops of rain begin to fall, steadily getting worse as their tongues slip over each other.

The tingling in her stomach won’t stop, the elated feeling in her head and the weightlessness of her body as he holds her tighter as if afraid she’ll float away. 

*

Maybe he is stupid. Or an idiot. Fool. Dumb ass. Any number of names he can call himself as he pulls her into the house, their hands flying all over each other’s bodies. Her shirt is removed, his fingers playing across her skin and her moans fill the cabin, overpowering the sound of rain pounding on the roof.

“Arthur,” she whispers, stopping him from going any further. “Are you sure about this? Please don’t do this out of pity.”

Their foreheads rest against each other. She’s in a state of half-dress and he’s completely abandoned his shirt. “No. I’m not sure about this, but can’t we not think for tonight?”

Florence pulls from him, buttoning up her shirt, head down and shaking it, no. “No, I can’t turn off my head for the night. I can’t not think about you. I don’t want our first time... “ She trails off.

“Florence, please. Give me time. I’m adjusting to-”

“Adjusting to what, Arthur? The idea that you may have feelings for me? Do you think I’m blind? I’ve seen the way you look at me. The way you hold me when we sleep. How close you move before we fall asleep. Are you telling me you don’t feel the same?”

“The last time I admitted to loving a woman, she broke my heart.” His yell silences her and she looks up, her mouth agape. “She ran off when we were supposed to get married. It’s not exactly known by anyone other than those in the gang, but I... “ He huffs. Fuck, what has he done? 

Florence looks into the fire. “I’m not… ready for this. I can’t keep playing these games.” She waves a hand and he backs up, not wanting to be in her space if she doesn’t want him to. “You pull me in, comfort me,  _ kiss me _ and then… ‘I can’t Florence. Give me time Florence.’” Her impression of Arthur is debatable but now is not the time to bring that up.

“Fucking choose one, Arthur. I refuse to have my heart broken. Either you want me or you don’t.” She enters the only room in the cabin and closes the door. 

Arthur sits on the floor after going out and retrieving the bedroll he packed just in case. He didn’t think he’d be using it like this, but at least it’s something between him and the wood. He also made sure both Chance and Lemon had enough food for the night.

How is he going to fix this? He stares at the door. It’s been a good hour and she hasn’t come out. He lays down, needing to sleep. Time will fix this right? In the morning, she’ll be back and they can talk properly. The fire dies down and it leaves the cabin cold, but he’s too uncaring and exhausted to get up and get more wood. Eventually the pounding rain against the roof and the silence of the room lulls him to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short and it took so long to write! I've been wrestling with writer's block and indecision. There is a note at the end about the rewrite of this book for those interested!

Arthur doesn’t remember waking up. He’s just staring up at the ceiling of the cabin, the only sounds being the fire cackling and his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. It’s almost peaceful when he doesn’t think about what the morning holds for him when Florence gets up.

A branch breaks outside and the inside of the cabin is illuminated by an outside source enough for him to move from a prone position to being underneath the window with a gun. He peers over the edge, but he can’t see past the glare created on the glass. The door rattles as the intruder tries to get in without so much as a knock, causing Arthur to stand point it at the shadowed figure. He’ll shoot the bastard dumb enough to starting turning door knobs at random cabins. “Arthur,” Charles voice calls out into the silence. “Damnit, open the door!”

Arthur puts the gun down and moves the lock out of the way. Charles bursts through the door, shivering and soaked, heading straight for the fire as questions spill from Arthur’s mouth. “What happened? Is it safe to come back to camp?” It might be a stupid question, considering Charles is sitting right here in front of his dying fire, but it might be a good one nonetheless.

Charles holds up a hand, putting his palms to the weak heat and getting the bedroll wet. Arthur throws on more wood, blowing on it until the fire grows and burns his face from getting so close. He pulls a chair over to Charles, not content to sit in silence while the man warms himseld. His mind runs through every possibility of why he;s here. Is it safe? Was someone lost? Killed? Captured? It’s eternity before Charles speaks again in his low voice. 

The flames give enough light to the room that Arthur can get a good look at Charles. He’s covered in blood, his face nearly a bright red with knife marks on one side of his cheek. “They attacked the camp, Arthur,” he whispers, eyes wide with fear. “When Dutch would’ve give them the location, they gave us hell.”

Arthur shifts in his seat. If he hadn’t brought bher into the gang… she’d be dead, but his family would be safe. Who’s his first priority? His family who’s known him for years or the girl he may be in love with after a little under a month?

“No guilt, Arthur. You know what Dutch always says.”

“He has a plan?”

Charles laughs, it ending in a groan as his arm wraps around his middle. “No. We feed those who need feeding. We save those who need saving--”

“We kill those who need killing,” Arthur finishes. He runs a hand through his hair, leaning forward on his crossed legs. “It’s strange being stuck between her and Dutch.” It’s like Dutch is testing his loyalty to him, but Dutch is the one who told him to bring her here. Dutch is the one who kept her location a secret.

So why does he feel stuck? Is it an inability to protect her? Or an inability to completely give himself to Dutch without questioning things.

“What’s the problem?” Charles shudders slightly, holding out his hands to the fire. “She’s part of the gang, Arthur. If we can accept Micah, Florence is no problem.” Arthur’s quiet chuckle fills the cabin. The men fall into companionable silence while the wood pops and eventually warms the cabin.

“Has Dutch moved the camp?”

Charles nods, shedding the blanket from his shoulders and stretching out his torso. “Yeah, Javier and I found a place in Lemoyne. Dutch didn’t want me coming here. Said it was risky.”

“Were you followed?”

“No. I don’t think so. And if I was, they wouldn’t be able to follow me.” It’s dark and Charles is a master hunter. Arthur trusts Charles to keep everyone safe, the man doesn’t think for himself, he thinks for the group.

“How much longer are we going to give her to rest?” 

Light flickers off the corners and shadows in the room as Arthur remains quiet. He’s not sure how much longer he should give Florence or if he should give her time at all. Of course, this isn’t about the resting but rather approaching the topic of whether or not he can be in a relationship with her and commit to it. Dawn approaches quickly, waking him from a doze he didn’t know he’d fallen into.

“Arthur, we should move now,” Charles says, shaking him further awake. Arthur nods, grunting as he stands and stretches out his body. The fire died down again, but with the sun rising, some of the warmth has become trapped. He’s been dreading waking her up and facing the fact that he will have to choose. Hopefully the urgency of the gang bearing down on the gang and her will push it out a little further so he can continue to think. 

Putting his hat back on his head, he crosses the room with three strides and knocks on the door, “Florence, we need to get moving.” Silence answers him and he knocks again, this time louder. “Florence, come on.” But there’s no answer and a stone drops into his stomach, shuddering through his whole body.

Finding the door unobstructed, Arthur pushes it open, calling for her with a sigh. Why isn’t she answering him?

The room is empty and the window open. The bed looks slept in and Florence’s hat and holster sit on the table where he assumed she had set it from the night before. Had she left on her own or were they followed? Was Charles followed? 

“She’s not in here,”Arthur calls back out to Charles. “Damnit, were you followed?”

Charles comes into the room, looking around, inspecting the open window and the bed. “Muddy footprints,” he says, pointing to something on the floor Arthur hadn’t noticed before. “Either she opened the window or it was opened from the outside.” There’s no telling, but the important thing is she’s gone.

He has to find her.

“Do you think you could track her?”

Charles nods and Arthur grabs both the hat and holster from the table. Chance is still in the shelter, falling asleep standing up. He pats the shire’s side and the horse snorts awake, turning a big brown eye at him.

“Dutch needs to know what’s going on,” Arthur says, grunting as he saddles up Lemon and throws on Chance’s as well. When he finds her, she’ll probably be more excited to see her horse than him. It makes him chuckle in a sad way. 

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Charles argues, looking over Taima’s back at him. “It’s not safe.”

Arthur says nothing, mounting the horse as the sun peeks over the horizon. Charles isn’t wrong, but he’s afraid Dutch will think something happened. “I’ll find you, okay? I have to find her and it would be easier for one person to do so.”

“It’s a death-wish, Arthur. You can’t go off running like this!”

Arthur shakes his head. “It’s not your call, now go tell Dutch what happened.” 

Charles glares at him and it’s clear he’ll have to deal with the consequences of ‘running off’ when he gets back to camp, but for every minute they waste is another minute she can be dead. Or tortured. Or whatever the fuck this cult will do to her. 

He’s shown the tracks that trail from her bedroom and it’s an easy path to follow. Wagon tracks as well as several horses lead him far from Strawberry.

When he finds her, he has to figure out his feelings her, even if they aren’t what she wants them to be. Why does he hesitate so? Why does he kiss her and then back away? She hasn’t been wrong in her anger and justified in wanting him to choose what he wants to do. But he doesn’t know. She’s not Mary, that much is clear. She has taken to this lifestyle in a way that Mary never did and she has no father, that he’s aware of, that will pull her from him. 

But still his heart remains in the brambles, protected by the wall he erected so long ago. The trail soon dies off as the sun rises higher in the sky and chases away the morning fog. To his left, a large green and purple field can be seen with a herd of horses watching him carefully. He spurns Lemon and Chance on, hoping he’ll come up on the camp.

But what he finds is worse.

The gang has managed to somehow procure a large farmhouse with several buildings and men standing outside. There is no way he can take these men on his own. “Arthur,” a voice whispers and he looks around to see Charles pulling his appaloosa out of the trees.

“Damnit Charles, didn’t I tell you to go back to camp?”

“You have a death hanging on your head, Arthur and I’m not about to let you die alone.” He stops next to the man, both of them far enough not to cause any alarm from the gang. “How are we going to get in? Place is crawling with them.”

“Yeah, I know.” Arthur crosses his arms and leans forward on the saddle. “I don’t know yet. Silently I think. She could be in any one of those buildings, but more likely the main house or the barn.”

Charles nods. He pulls his bow from the saddle and hitches Taima to a tree off to the side. Arthur does the same with Lemon and Chance and they sneak along the side of the treeline until they are forced out into the open. 

There is a fence that circles the entirety of the farmhouse with an arch that marks the opening. Two men stand guard, guns relaxed and talking to each other as they lean against the posts. More men prowl inside the camp. There seems to be no patrolling party which is both helpful and terrible at the same time. “How do we want to proceed?”

Arthur stops and thinks for a moment. How will this go the best way? If they hear gunshots out in the main area, they might kill her off immediately. Or they might come out and investigate, allowing both him and Charles time to pick them off one by one. It’s hard to tell how truly big this gang actually is. Or if this is even their main camp.

Arthur points to the men in the front and they raise their bows at the same time, a  _ twang  _ echoing off the trunks. They drop dead, shafts sticking out their head. It raises a quiet alarm amongst the men in the camp as they become tense and hold their guns in a fighting stance. “Who’s there?” It’s like they don’t want to alarm whoever is inside. 

Arthur counts five men outside. Enough to make it difficult in killing them all in a successful manner. He’s not as trained or well-equipped with the bow to-

Charles shoots off the arrows one by one, the men dropping silently to the ground. “Damn, Charles,” Arthur whistles lowly. They stay low to the ground, approaching the farmhouse. No one comes out of either building and it seems their killing has gone unnoticed for now.

“Told you, you need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! For those who are interested in the development of this story, I've been thinking of two ways I can go about this. I could either rewrite the story and leave Florence's gang as the main conflict or I can rewrite it as background in the game canon and write my playthrough. What do you all think?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and don't forget to tell what you thought!


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